


Make Me Feel

by Gallabitch



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Emotional, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Homophobic Language, Homosexual relationship, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, North Side Ian, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sick Ian, Slow Burn, Swearing, Travel, Underage Drinking, Underage Ian, Underage Substance Use, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-08 14:12:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11083260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gallabitch/pseuds/Gallabitch
Summary: A sheltered Ian Gallagher finds out he is terminally ill and the only person he wants to spend his final days with is the thug he meets on the South Side who offers him the chance to experience life.Trailer:https://youtu.be/h4NZyPrdp80





	1. Desperate

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fan fiction so I hope you enjoy it! :)
> 
> I'll be adding tags as the story progresses.

"ID?"

Ian Gallagher patted the front and back pockets of his jeans and supplied an apologetic smile to the man behind the counter. He assumed by the roll of the other man's eyes that this was a scenario he witnessed more frequently than Ian had hoped.

"No ID, no booze." The overweight man flicked his wrist towards the exit, fanning his fingers to shoo Ian out of his line of sight while dragging the bottle of Jack Daniel's from the counter with his other hand. He then promptly returned his gaze to the magazine in front of him as if Ian had never existed in the first place.

Ian's mouth opened to protest but it quickly closed, unable to muster the energy to form a credible argument. This was just the shit that he needed to pile on top of his already shitty day. He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to saunter out of the building, the sound of the bell mocking him as he exited empty handed.

His fingers twitched at his sides as he began his journey back to the North Side. If he was being honest with himself, he had half-expected the outcome. After all, the only luck he seemed to be having was bad.

It was dark and humid during the nighttime in Chicago but the darkness of the South Side was much different than what Ian was accustomed to from the North Side. It was eerie. He found himself glancing over his shoulder more often than he’d like to admit. And though he should have found some comfort in being completely alone, it made his body tremble ever so slightly.

A hand on his shoulder paired with a sharp "aye!" was enough to pull him out of his head.

Startled, he turned around only to be greeted by a pair of tattooed knuckles shoving a bottle of Jack into his chest. His fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle hesitantly, loosening it from the grasp of the stranger. He peered at him curiously. "Th-thanks." He followed the inked letters which found a home just above battered knuckles, up to the face of his new acquaintance.

The other boy nudged the tip of his nose with the pad of his thumb. "Yeah." The brown -almost black- haired boy turned away, lighting a cigarette, and his feet began to take him further down the empty sidewalk, leaving a flabbergasted Ian in his wake.

Ian watched in awe as the mysterious figure shrank into the distance. He shook his head to gather himself then jogged after the stranger down the unfamiliar stretch of road. "Hey!" He called after him, the sudden courage in his voice sounded foreign to his own ears. When the brunette didn't turn around, he tried again, only louder. "Hey!" Ian's fingers latched onto the hem of his shirt, causing the other boy to swat him away.

"The fuck?" The soft face that had initially greeted him was now hardened, almost appearing disgusted. Pale blue eyes glaring into earthy green ones for only a second before the brunette huffed his annoyance and turned on his heels to swagger away again.

Ian's brows furrowed. Had he imagined the guy that purchased the bottle for him only moments before? The guy walking away from him didn't appear to give two shits about him now. He was tempted to simply leave with the bottle but being stubborn was an inherent part of his personality. His shoes started to carry him across the pavement before his brain fully processed what was happening. "Hey!" He tried a third time. "Would you just stop for a second?"

The shorter man curled the fingers of his free hand into a tight fist while lowering the cigarette from his lips with the other, attempting to steel himself. Ian swallowed the tightness in his throat at the apparent anger in the other boy but the fact that he stopped in his tracks made him feel a little lighter.

"You obviously ain't from around here, kid. So I'm gonna give you a chance to walk the fuck away before I take the bottle back out of your hand and smash it on that carrot top." The threat escaped his mouth with a plume of smoke. He didn't need to turn around to know that Ian looked terrified.

"I just..." why was he still talking? "I just wanted to say, y’know, thanks."

The brunette’s shoulders stiffened at the words and he raised the cigarette back to his lips to take another pull. "You fuckin' said that already."

Ian knew he should run away while the other boy's back was still facing him. He was already given more chances than he deserved. He took a brief moment to assess the situation; there was an obvious height advantage on his part but he knew it would take a lot more than a few inches to be able to win against the thug threatening him. Yet, his lips kept moving. "Yeah well I-" his eyes widened when the other boy shifted to bring his body closer to Ian so he could grab the collar of his shirt and press his weight against the brick wall of the abandoned building beside them, dropping his cigarette to the ground in the process.

"Are you fuckin' deaf?" He was nearly cross-eyed peering up at Ian in such close proximity but the confidence and power emanating off of him made up for what he lacked in height.

Ian shook his head frantically. His fearful eyes danced around the face of the other boy, admiring the features he could see more vividly through the stream of light pouring down on them from the streetlamp above. Sure, he knew this wasn’t the time to be giving someone the once over, seeing as how he was being assaulted and all, but damn if he couldn’t help himself.

The thug released the fabric of Ian’s shirt after he felt his point had been made. "Then get out of here. I ain't sayin' it again." His foot fell heavily against the burning cigarette on the ground, extinguishing it.

"Will you just tell me why?" Ian could've smashed the bottle over his own head.

The boy’s eyebrows flew up so far they nearly touched his hairline. "You fuckin' serious?"

Ian walked back a few steps. "Fine. Fine. I'm going." He shook the bottle in the other boy’s direction, continuing to walk backwards.

Mickey inhaled a deep breath through his nostrils before sputtering out the words, taking pity on the kid and somewhat admiring his perseverance. "You looked desperate, alright?"

Ian paused mid-step, eyebrows scrunching together. "What? _Desperate_?" He couldn’t decide if he was more stunned by the choice of words or the fact that something other than a threat came out of the other boy’s mouth.

His thumb found the side of his nose once again. "Yeah. Desperate. Like you needed some of that." He waved his hand towards the bottle in Ian's.

Ian felt as though he should be offended but he knew what the other boy said was true. He _was_ desperate. Desperate to experience something he hadn't before. Desperate to wash away his pain. Desperate to feel numb. To feel nothing at all. "Yeah." A quiet chuckle managed to escape. "You're right about that." He could tell the other boy was uncomfortable, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he fumbled for another cigarette.

The summer air was still aside from a few crickets singing nearby. The silence stretched between them for longer than either of them were comfortable with.

"Yeah well then. You're welcome, or whatever." The words would've been missed by Ian's ears had the atmosphere not been so quiet.

The corners of Ian's lips tugged into a small smile. "What's your name?"

Blue eyes raised from the uneven concrete to meet Ian's. "You don't give up, do you?" He let out a soft laugh despite himself. When Ian continued to stare at him, he rolled his eyes. "Mickey."

Ian took a few steps forward to meet Mickey again. "Ian." He outstretched his hand then awkwardly pulled it back to rub the nervous sweat from his palm against the thigh of his jeans when all Mickey did was stare at the gesture.

"Where did you even come from?" Mickey tilted his head heavenward, silently admonishing himself for not leaving this awkward redhead where he stood when he had the chance.

Ian's eyes blinked a few times in rapid succession. "Monica." Was all he could manage to spit out. He knew it was stupid as soon as he said it but the small laugh from Mickey made it worth it.

"Okay, wise guy. Where did Monica squeeze you out?" Mickey raised his eyebrows, smiling around his cigarette.

Ian paused for a moment before answering, dumbfounded by the turn of the conversation. "North Side."

Mickey nodded his head slowly. "The fuck you doin' here then?"

Ian shrugged innocently. "Not old enough." He shook the whiskey bottle at Mickey again.

Mickey laughed, tossing his cigarette to the side. "No fake?" When Ian shook his head, he pieced the story together. "So what you thought you'd come to the shit side of town and get away with it?" His eyebrows hitched once again and Ian couldn’t help but observe that perhaps they had more personality than any person he had ever met.

Another innocent shrug.

"Watchu so desperate for, anyway? Your nanny not cut the crust off your sandwich?" The corners of Mickey’s lips threated to curl into a smile at the sound of his own humor.

Ian nibbled on the inside of his cheek for a few beats. He chose to ignore the dig and let the truth of his visit to the dingy liquor store steal the spotlight. "Cancer."

Mickey audibly sucked in the breath he was releasing.

Ian kicked at some of the loose pieces of concrete that had broken away from the main slab. They were both quiet, his eyes never leaving the ground until a freshly lit cigarette was lingering in his direction. "You're gonna offer a cancer stick to someone who just said they have cancer?"

"Y'already got it. Can't get it again."

Ian found himself staring at Mickey. Not in anger. But in relief. When his family found out only hours ago, they cried. Sobbed. They suffocated him with tight limbs and showered his face with chapped lips. The doctors even choked back their words before they spilled through their reluctant mouths. Ian understood why they did it. Bad things didn’t happen to them often. There was never much suffering in the Gallagher household so when it made an appearance, no one knew how to properly handle it. Yet here Mickey stood, a man he had known for less than an hour, making jokes about his illness.

He found himself accepting the offer, pulling the cigarette from Mickey's marked fingers. He raised it to his lips and took a short drawl from it before choking when the smoke filled his lungs.

Mickey laughed in amusement but refused to take the stick back when Ian held it out to him. "You need it more than I do."  
After his coughing fit subsided, he attempted it again. This time the coughing sounds were a little less violent.

Mickey nodded approvingly. "So, how long you got then, North Side?"

"Couple months."

Mickey chewed on the skin of his bottom lip. He wasn't exactly the comforting type so, he supposed they were both experiencing some firsts in the same moment. "When'd you find out?"

"Today." Ian attempted the cigarette again.

 _Today_. His entire world changed today. The entire day had seemed like a blur of colors and noise. He racked his brain to remember anything after “stage four lung cancer” had been introduced to his ears. He remembered practically hearing his older sister’s heart shatter in her chest. The tears flowing down her cheeks as if the dam keeping them at bay had shattered too. Fiona was more of a mother to him than either of his mom’s had ever been. Monica could barely pass as a functioning member of society, let alone a maternal figure. And Lucy, his step-mother, resented him most days for sharing Monica’s DNA. But Fiona took care of him when the other women fell through. She was always there for him when he needed advice, encouraged his dreams, held his hand after his heart was broken by the boy down the street. She was his rock. The one solid figure in his life. And in that moment, as he sat with his long legs draped over the edge of the table in the doctor’s office, he was witnessing his strong sister crumbling into ashes on the floor.

Mickey's tongue ran against the now freshly torn skin. "Damn." It wasn't much, he knew that. But what do you say to someone who is dying? He'd seen death. He'd caused death. He'd been up close and personal with death. But never in someone who appeared to be his own age. And never caused by something that didn't involve drugs or weapons or bare hands.

"Can we walk?" Ian knew he was pushing his luck. The guy had already bought his alcohol, spared his life, and listened to him talk about his problems. But standing in one place for so long was making him anxious and he wasn't ready to end their conversation.

Mickey hesitated for a moment then nudged his head in the direction behind him, signaling his compliance.

Ian took the few steps it took to reach Mickey's side so they could begin walking together.

It was a silent walk for awhile which Ian expected after dropping his nuclear disease bomb. There weren't really many conversations that could fill the space after that. But he was grateful just for Mickey's presence. Although he didn't give off the most warm and welcoming aura, that's what Ian needed right now. He was tired of the pity; from others and even himself. No amount of wallowing was going to cure him. Love wouldn't save his life. Praying wouldn't remove the illness from his body. That's why he left the North Side. To get away from the pity and the sadness.

The next time Ian took in his surroundings, it was because of the sound of the L racing on the tracks overhead. Mickey stretched his arm out to make Ian come to a halt then he plopped down into the grass. Ian followed suit, leaning his back against the graffitied pillar supporting the tracks above.

Mickey sat back as well, propping his elbow against his bent knee. "You wanna crack that open?"

Ian looked at him curiously then peered at the bottle he had forgotten he had in tow. "Oh. Yeah, sure."

Mickey smirked and held his hand out for Ian to pass it to him. Once it was in his hand, he unscrewed the top and took the first swig before holding it back out to Ian. His eyebrows waggled at Ian's hesitation. "C'mon, Firecrotch. Don't pussy out on me."

Ian reluctantly took the bottle. Sure he had planned on taking his first drink tonight. But not in the company of someone else. He raised the lip of the bottle to his mouth and tossed the liquor down his throat with an audible gulp. His nose crinkled and a disgusted frown formed on his face as he coughed out the alcoholic heat.

All Mickey could do was laugh. "You get used to it."

They passed the bottle back and forth in companionable silence for a while until Ian spoke.

"This sucks."

Mickey scoffed. "This was your idea."

"Not this." Ian motioned between the two of them. "The cancer, man." He leaned his heavy head against the cold of the pillar.

Mickey hummed his acknowledgement.

"Didn't even make it to eighteen."

Mickey looked like someone punched him in his gut at that information. The kid was barely two years younger than himself. Not even an adult yet. Sure he hadn't lived nineteen years of bliss but he wasn't fucking dying.

"I've lived seventeen years in a... a box." The redhead’s words came out in a long slur and his head fell heavily to the side so his hooded eyes met Mickey's. "Clayton is a rich asshole."

Mickey raised his eyebrows and tipped the bottle towards Ian in mock cheers then sloshed what was left of the bottle into his mouth. He didn't know who Clayton was, but the name alone sounded like that of an asshole, so he’d drink to that.

"I don't wanna go home." Ian mumbled.

"So don't." Mickey finally spoke. He pointed up to the now-empty L track above their heads. "You have a way out right there."

Ian was silent.

"Just jump on and don't get off until you feel like it. Go fuckin’ live, or whatever." Mickey tapped the empty bottle against the dirt beside his leg. He offered the idea with a hilt of confidence because he had thought about taking his own advice several times before when things got too rough for him at home. "The fuck does this shitty place have anyway? Ain't nothin' to leave behind."

Ian attempted to sit his head back up straight on his shoulders. "You're right." His leaded eyelids drooped low, shielding his pupils almost entirely.

Mickey looked at him with growing eyes, having not known if Ian was actually still awake or coherent enough to understand that suggestion. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Ian started to push his body out of the grass but fell miserably to the side. "Let's go."

"Woah, woah, woah." Mickey shook his head. "Let's?"

"Let's, Mickey." Ian successfully pushed himself off of the ground this time and stood up on shaky legs, throwing his arms out to his sides. "You said it. Ain't nothin' to leave behind." Looking at Mickey, Ian felt a pang of jealousy. He was everything Ian wanted to be. Tough, fearless, self-assured. He could tell Mickey didn’t give a shit what anyone thought in the way he carried himself. That was the life Ian wanted so desperately but never had the chance to experience.

Mickey quickly stood up to catch Ian by the arm before he fell flat on his face. "You're drunk as fuck man, we need to get you home." He pulled Ian’s body closer to his own, supporting the weight of the taller man by wrapping his gangly arm around his shoulders.

"No!" Ian winced at the volume of his own voice. "I don't want to go home." He leaned into Mickey, causing them both to nearly topple over.

"You don't have shit with you man. What are you plannin' to do when you wake up on the L with nothin'?" Mickey started to drag Ian forward, into the direction of his own house. He was pretty sure the last time he heard the L was the final time it would be running that night and with Ian’s current disposition, he’d be dead before he managed to pull him all the way to his home on the North Side.

"We'll figure it out then."

"We can figure out fuck all. This is all you, man." Ian was essentially no help in carrying his own body down the street, causing Mickey to huff out air with each of his own off-kilter steps.

Ian gripped onto Mickey's forearms with force. Partially to sturdy himself and partially to get the other man's full attention. "I'm dying, Mickey." It was the first time he allowed himself to actually say the words rather than think them and damn did they taste bitter. His life was actually ending.

The sadness that encompassed Ian's puppy face in that moment was enough to make his stony Milkovich heart flip in his chest. His eyes shifted between Ian’s for a moment. What was he doing? He met this kid a couple of hours ago. His first mistake was making the alcohol purchase, his second was joining the kid to drink said alcohol. But the biggest mistake was dragging him all the way to the front stoop of his rundown house and depositing him in his bed. After Mickey ignored Ian’s comment about dying, Ian had kept his mouth shut for which Mickey was truly grateful, however, he had also fallen asleep leaving his heavy body fully as the shorter man’s responsibility. He pulled the pristine shoes off of the kid’s feet once his drunken body was settled into the mattress and dropped them on the ground with a thud before leaving the room and pulling his door shut behind him.

Mickey threw himself down onto the deteriorating couch in his living room and flicked the abandoned lighter he plucked from the coffee table, bringing the flame to the cigarette perched between his lips. He sat alone for a few heartbeats, taking in the rare silence of his home. Normally there were bodies bustling in and out; whether it be his siblings, his Terry (referring to him as his father would be giving him too much credit), whoever his sister was shacking up with, or the drug fiends they called their friends, so the silence was a welcomed friend. Even with all of the people that usually surrounded him on a daily basis, Mickey still couldn’t help but feel alone most days. He was different than his siblings deep down, though the guard he always had up made him seem more like the other Milkoviches. Terry instilled fear and heartlessness into his children at a young age. Mickey learned early on that defying Terry was a move that he did not want to make because it usually ended with him curling into his own broken, bloody body and the sound of Terry’s drunken yelling filling his ringing ears. Maybe a change of scenery wouldn’t be the worst thing for him, either.

“Ain’t nothin’ to leave behind.”


	2. Hungover

He watched it in movies, heard stories about it from friends, observed Monica and Frank stumbling through it their whole lives, but Ian had never had the unfortunate pleasure of waking up with his stomach in his throat and the rhythmic beat of his heart in his head until now. The feeling of scratchy sheets was not something Ian was used to either. The cheap material was bundled beneath his chin and clutched against his palm and however far-off from what he was used to, the sheet provided a sense of unfamiliar comfort for him. When his eyes cracked themselves open, he was greeted by an unpleasant light filtering in through the makeshift curtains strung loosely against the window. He attempted to sit up but immediately abandoned that plan when the curdling in his gut took over. His eyelids peeled apart further to give him a clear view of the room he was lying in. He scanned the area for any indication of where he was. This was definitely not a room that belonged to someone on the North side. Old rock posters taped to the chipped walls, beer cans and stale cigarettes scattered on every open surface, laundry littered on the floor. It was kind of disgusting in comparison to what his own home looked like but he could almost imagine Mickey walking through the door shredding each layer, not caring where it landed, until he made it into his bed. This bed. The bed Ian was snuggled into. _Mickey’s_ bed. That’s where he was.

He gave pulling himself into a sitting position another chance and when the contents of his stomach threatened to pour out of his mouth, he concluded that alcohol was not all it was cracked up to be.

Ian had always wanted to try alcohol. He longed for the sense of carelessness it provided. The feeling of not being in control of his own actions. Not having to be responsible for once in his life. He always envisioned it would be at a party or at a club, with house music thumping through his veins, making his ribs rattle together. Laughing with friends while wildly dancing, letting his hips guide him through the songs and the rush of the alcohol taking over his body. Just letting go. After his diagnosis though, his plans for getting drunk had been drastically altered. All he wanted was to be by himself after being bombarded in the doctor’s office with sympathetic looks and touches and words. He wanted to walk into the liquor store, be handed the bottle solely based on his charm (as he had with so many things before) and not his birthdate, then wallow in his own self misery while he drowned in Jack Daniel's, the only brand of alcohol he had recognized on the shelf.

What he did not expect was to run into a dark haired boy with contrasting blue eyes settled against paper-white skin. A complete stranger who went out of his way to gift a bottle of unprescribed medication to him with absolutely no knowledge of the pain he was suffering from. When Mickey ran off, Ian almost felt sicker than he had when he heard his diagnosis. A fact he had yet to take the time to dissect. That's why he chased him. Sure, he wanted to thank the stranger again for shelling out cash for someone he hadn’t even met yet, but there was more to his motives than that.

Ian lived a very sheltered life where tales of prostitutes, drug addicts, and cold blooded killers were the only occupants of the streets in the South side. Being surrounded by rich people living the high life who thought the sun shined out of their asses had clouded his judgement. He didn't expect the most selfless person he had ever met to be residing in the hood in which he was raised to fear.

With the thoughts of Mickey flowing heavily through his alcohol-ridden brain, he pushed himself off the mattress to fumble with the doorknob. He peered into the family room once the door squeaked open on its hinges. At first, he almost thought he was all alone until noticing a pair of socked feet lying limply on the arm of the sofa. He tiptoed to the piece of furniture and peered over the back to gaze at a sleeping Mickey. He looked carefree lying there with his arm tucked beneath his tired head. Ian took note of the scattered bruises and scrapes against his pale skin that he hadn't recognized previously in the dim Chicago night. He found himself curious, wanting to hear the stories of every mark, consciously catching his fingers from reaching out to trace the outlines embedded in his skin.

After studying the sleeping boy for a few minutes, he started to feel creepy and images of Mickey springing awake to deck the shit out of him flashed through his mind. He found his shoes strewn against the floor in Mickey's bedroom and laced them around his feet before dropping his long fingers to the doorknob of the door separating him from the outside. As he tugged it open, a heavy Chicagoan accent sliced through the dewy morning air.

"Where you goin'?"

Ian stopped his feet from pulling him into the headache-inducing morning sun and instead turned around to look at the man on the couch who was stretching his thick, muscular arms into the empty space above his head.

"I was just heading out." Ian offered in an attempt to cover up his gawking. He had seen two completely different sides of Mickey in the short span of time he knew him. There was the side that threatened his life, and the side that saved it. There was no way of knowing which side the brunette would take on this early in the morning and Ian wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

"How's your head?" Mickey gave him a knowing smirk when Ian's nose crinkled in the center of his face. "You got a few minutes? I got somethin' to make you feel better."

Ian moved to close the door and fully re-enter the home more eagerly than he should have but Mickey didn't seem to notice in his tranquil state. Hope filled Ian’s body that he was being reacquainted with kind-Mickey.

The brunette drug his legs to the front of the sofa, knees cracking through their stiffness as he stood up from the furniture. He walked into the kitchen, opening different drawers and cabinets and pulling a few items from the refrigerator. Eventually he came back with a concoction that Ian imagined his lunch would look like if it came back up and smelled even worse.

"Shit's nasty but. It helps." Mickey was persistent, not reeling his hand back until the cup with the logo from the pizza place a few blocks over had been taken from it.

Ian was in no position to doubt the magical powers being held within the confines of the putrid liquid in front of him. After all, Mickey seemed to be a veteran when it came to dealing with drunkenness and hangovers. Ian pinched his nose and chugged the thick mixture, gagging his way through until he smacked the plastic cup onto the coffee table with an intense shiver passing through him. He cupped his mouth with one hand and pressed his fingers into his stomach with the other as his gagging continued.

Mickey’s eyes widened, knowing exactly what was about to happen. He jumped back from his position near the couch just in time for Ian to hunch over and vomit on his own feet and the carpet beneath them. His head hung low in udder embarrassment, too afraid to look up at Mickey. He was surprised when a roll of paper towels was shoved in his face.

“S’not the first time that’s happened there, but I ain’t cleanin’ up after your sorry ass.” Mickey crossed his arms and watched on as Ian wiped the back of his hand against his mouth and began cleaning up the mess he made, an entertained expression gleaming against his face. "So," he started, corners of his mouth falling back into a straight line, "how was your first time?"

Ian scoffed and shook his swirling head. "Not so good." That was a lie. If the hangover was what Mickey was referencing, then Ian could say wholeheartedly that he never wanted to engage in any kind of drinking ever again. But his first time actually drinking had been oddly better than he hoped. There were no flashing colored lights, no grinding against sweaty bodies, no music bumping through his core. But he had Mickey. And he couldn't help but think that might've just been better.

"We’ll get you used to it." Mickey clapped Ian on the shoulder.

Memories of the night before lit Ian's brain up like a Christmas tree. He distinctly remembered throwing the word " _we_ " around as if he and Mickey were a packaged deal. The thought still made his insides swim but he also remembered Mickey's retort against the idea of them doing anything as a " _we_ ". He knew he was looking too far into it. Maybe Mickey was still in a haze of sleep. Maybe he was still drunk. Or maybe he was actually considering the possibilities of a “ _we_ ” forming.

Mickey stood up abruptly from the couch when Ian didn't offer a response, too preoccupied with forming a pile of filthy paper towels. "You hangin' out or are you done slummin' it?" He dawdled into his room before Ian could respond, then reappeared momentarily with one towel slung over his stout shoulders and another in his hand. He raised a challenging eyebrow at Ian, hitched high enough to form wrinkles on his forehead. Ian thought he counted four. He had never seen such an expressive face in his life. He concluded Mickey never needed to speak again because his facial expressions did all of his talking for him.

"Water pressure is shit." He warned as Ian pulled the towel into his own hand then Mickey proceeded to fall into the couch to wait his turn.

Ian bowed his head in thanks, finding sentences too difficult to form out of embarrassment. He found his way to the bathroom through Mickey's bedroom and took his shower, letting the spray wash away the grime and vomit he felt on his body and ease the pain still living in his head. Though he could feel it dulling thanks to the remnants of the magical drink in his system that Mickey courteously prepared for him.

~~

He emerged from the shower after indulging in the relief the water provided for far too long. He had tugged his jeans back on but left his dirty shirt to hang in his hand freely when he exited the bathroom, a trail of steam bellowing out behind him. His eyes fell to Mickey who had his feet propped up on the coffee table, crossed at the ankles, and a video game controller in his hands. He climbed over the back of the couch to take the empty seat next to Mickey. If Ian was a gambler, he would have bet all of his money that he saw the other man’s thumbs freeze on the sticks of the controller when their denim-clad thighs pressed against one another. He took the opportunity to pluck the controller from Mickey's stilled grasp and began to play for him.

Unless his peripheral vision was playing tricks on him, Mickey's eyes had fallen against his bare freckled skin. Ian had to take a few deep breaths to stop the flush of warmth from creeping up his neck to redden his fair skin. Too suddenly he felt the weight lift from the other side of the couch, followed by the bathroom door closing in the other room.

Ian’s throat constricted at the thoughts suffocating his brain. There was _no_ way the big bad thug of the South side preferred tall, muscular boys over pretty, petite girls. Right?

~~

Morning turned to afternoon and both boys were settled on the couch in the living room playing match after match of Mortal Kombat and sharing a bag of cheese puffs. Their happy peace was interrupted by the sound of the heavy front door slamming into the wall. Ian's eyes grew to the size of walnuts at the sight of the grey haired man barreling his way into the residence. He eyed Mickey whose whole body had instantly tensed at the intrusion. Ian gathered his dirty shirt off of the ash-covered coffee table and pulled it over his torso.

Terry blew past the statuesque boys and into the kitchen to grab a beer, and even with Ian's limited knowledge of alcohol, he guessed he had already had a few too many.

"Who's the ginger?" Terry's yell was obscured by the cigarette in his mouth but the volume still made Mickey pinch the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb.

"The fuck's it matter to you?" Mickey spit out while ushering Ian to the door a little too roughly.

Terry twisted the cap of the beer bottle off and flung it to the ground. “Fucker’s sittin’ naked on my couch with my boy lookin’ like a couple of fags. That’s why it fuckin’ matters, you prick.” He took a long swig from the chilled bottle then replaced it with his cigarette.

Ian let Mickey guide him but his heart was pounding in his chest. He didn't know anything about Mickey’s life but he had a sickening feeling that he might not be safe in his own home.

Mickey ignored Terry’s accusations and pressed his hands firmly against Ian’s chest to shove him through the threshold. "Listen." He started with a whisper so quiet that Ian had to lean in to him to hear the rest of his sentence. "If you were serious, y'know, about runnin'." His fingers were tucked beneath his chin, his thumb running across his bottom lip nervously. "Meet me at the liquor store at 8." And with that, the door closed in Ian's face. He stood staring at the wood he was faced with for a few moments before the sound of muffled yelling breached his ears from the inside of the house. There were several loud thuds and harsh shouting for a while until all the sound ceased. Ian swallowed the lump in his throat before forcing his legs to walk him to the L so he could travel back to the North side.

~~

The Gallagher family was strange to say the least. Ian lived with his father Clayton and his step-mother Lucy after being surrendered by Monica when he was not even one year old. She preferred to spend her money on cocaine and alcohol rather than baby formula and diapers. His five siblings shared Monica’s DNA but rather unfortunately for them, were fathered by Clayton’s brother Frank instead. When Frank died from the most advanced case of alcohol poisoning the doctor’s had ever witnessed, Fiona won custody of the children and took care of them on her own. All of the children except Ian, of course. They were rarely welcomed into the North side home due to Lucy’s harsh views of the other Gallagher’s as “white-trash”, and never let Ian spend time with them at their house because she was afraid they would negatively influence Ian’s life.

Ian wheezed as he passed through the front door of the Gallagher estate, one of the symptoms of his cancer that landed him in the doctor’s office to begin with. His eyes met Lucy’s as he coughed into the crook of his elbow and he cringed at the flash of annoyance that washed over her face. She never cared about him. She only cared about how her image was effected by him. He waved her off with furrowed eyebrows and trekked up the spiraling staircase that led to his room on the second floor. He never realized how unnecessary all the extra space in their home was until today. Or how clean it was. Their home barely even looked lived in. Routinely dusted and vacuumed. All the pillows were always fluffed to max capacity. Laundry was promptly tucked away in drawers and hung in closets. Ian always naively assumed that was how everyone lived.

He threw himself down onto his made bed and stared at the ceiling. The scent of Mickey’s cigarettes wafting into his nose from his shirt. He thought after hearing the words the day prior, all he would be able to think about was dying. About how his body was choosing to give up on him more and more every second. About how in a few weeks he probably wouldn’t recognize himself when he looked in the mirror. Or if he’d even be able to stand to look in the mirror. But instead, he was picturing blue. Every image in his head was blue. He never had a favorite color until twelve hours ago.

And now, he was given the opportunity to see blue until his last day. Mickey wanted to run away with him. Away from what he couldn’t say for sure but a solid guess could be made based off of what he heard after the door was slammed in his face. The thought brought the nauseous feeling back to his stomach. But Mickey was tough. Ian knew that much. And he silently prayed that Mickey was able to hold his own against his father.

After half an hour of mapping out all of the possible outcomes of running away with Mickey, Ian reached for his phone to dial Fiona’s number.

“Hey, sweetface.” Ian could hear the broken smile that was settled on her face when she greeted him with the endearing name he adopted as a child.

“Hey, Fi.” His large hand slid down his face as he contemplated how to explain his situation to his sister. He wasn’t sure if he was looking for her to give him a reason to stay or a reason to go.

“You okay?” It was a stupid question. They both knew the answer already. He would never be okay.

“Listen, Fi. I need to tell you something. And it’s… It’s going to sound insane, I know.” His eyes closed and he inhaled a slow breath through his nostrils.

Radio silence.

“I think I need to leave.” Dancing around the topic wasn’t going to make it any easier so he delve into it head first.

“Leave where? North side? You know you can stay with us.” Fiona begged for years for Clayton and Lucy to let Ian stay with her on numerous occasions but the answer always remained the same. Her voice sounded hopeful. As if his diagnosis would change their response.

“Chicago.” His heart was racing in his chest. “I need to leave Chicago.” He clarified.

A humorless laugh escaped her lips. “Leave Chicago? And go where, Ian?” The hurt was evident in her voice.

“I don’t know. I-I met someone last night. We talked about leaving and I think I want to.” The story sounded ridiculous to his own hears. Mickey was a complete stranger yet Ian felt like he knew him without knowing him at all. There was something about the other boy that stirred up emotions Ian hadn’t felt with such intensity. Excitement, carelessness, freedom, the rush of the unknown, and even a hint of fear.

“Ian… Do you hear yourself? You can’t just leave with some guy you met last night. You’re sick. You need to be with us. Your family. You need be close to Dr. Teller.”

“I’m not just sick, Fi. I’m dying!” He didn’t want to raise his voice at her but he was so upset with the whole situation that he was losing control. “I’m not doing chemo. I’m not spending the last few months of my life in a hospital bed while the world goes on around me. I-I can’t Fi. That’s not what I want. I want to live. I can’t do that here. I know it sounds crazy. I know it does. But I need this. Please try to understand.”

Fiona’s voice was broken and wet on the other line. “I can’t change your mind?”

He shook his head then supplied a response upon remembering that he was on the telephone. “No.” His mind was made up now. The longer he mulled it over, the more appealing the offer was. This was his opportunity to live the life he dreamed about. A chance to experience everything the world had to offer him outside of the confines of the walls of his mansion. “I just needed to tell you so you didn’t think I disappeared.”

“Be safe.” Fiona knew Ian too well to challenge his decision. He had been stubborn since he came out of Monica’s womb. Trying to deter him from what he wanted was a lost cause. So with those two words, she hung up the phone.

When the line went dead, he sat down at his wooden desk and began constructing a letter to leave for his parents.

~~

Mickey was leaning against the wall of the liquor store with his duffel bag at his feet and a half-burned cigarette dangling from his swollen lips. He checked the time through the cracks on the screen of his burner phone. He still had ten minutes to wait for the redhead to show up. That also meant he had ten minutes to split. The kid had passed out on the way to his house so there was no way he’d be able to locate him. But he did walk to the L when he left that morning. _Fuck_. He didn’t know what he was thinking. He didn’t make decisions like this. The only emotion he ever thought with was anger. That’s how he was taught. But he felt something for this kid. Sympathy, he thought. It was a foreign concept. But he was dying for fuck’s sake. He was doing him a favor by getting him out of his prison in Chicago. And maybe, just maybe, Ian was doing Mickey a favor too.

But maybe Ian would pussy out. After all, he had originally agreed to the idea when he was highly inebriated. Mickey beat himself eternally for suggesting the idea a second time. Why would Ian want to venture off with him in the first place? Mickey was poor and just as, if not more, uneducated about the rest of the world as Ian was.

Chain smoking and weighing his options made time fly by because when Mickey blinked his eyes for what felt like the first time, a mop of red hair caught his eye under the light of the moon and the flickering light bulb settled in the lantern hanging from the liquor store.

“Hey.” Ian greeted him with a timorous smile, casting his green eyes to Mickey’s figure to study him intently as if he took his gaze away, he would disappear. His eyes were caught on the fresh bruises on his cheekbones and the scabbed over split in his bottom lip. The sight made his insides twist. He wanted to ask Mickey what happened. He wanted to ask him if he pummeled his father the way he himself was pummeled. But he didn’t. He kept his mouth shut out of fear of driving him away.

 _He came_. “You ready, Firecrotch?” Mickey dropped his cigarette, refusing to look at the other boy for too long to appear disinterested. He pulled his duffel bag by its strap from the ground then started to walk towards the L without checking to see if Ian was following him.

Ian silently thanked his creator for blessing him with long legs so he could quickly catch up with the shorter man after being pulled out of his stupor. “You know, I was doing a little research. The L won’t take us very far. We need to get on a Greyhound.” He let out a deep cough into his elbow.

Mickey raised his eyebrows at the violent hacking that sounded as bad as when Ian sucked down the first cigarette he was offered. “Won’t make it to either if you go dyin’ on me on the fuckin’ sidewalk.”

Once again, Ian wasn’t offended. “Asshole.” He forced out a laugh once his coughing fit ended and shoved Mickey teasingly with his shoulder.

Mickey nudged him back. “So where’re we gonna go then?” He rarely left the South side to venture to other parts of the city unless it was to do a run with Terry or his older brothers so his knowledge of public transportation was limited. And unlike the redhead, the last thing he’d be caught dead doing was fucking research.

“Let’s just get on the L for tonight and figure everything out. We can go wherever we want on the Greyhound.” Ian beamed. He was really trying his best not to sound too giddy but dammit, he was excited. Excited to leave, excited to experience things he never had before, and perhaps most importantly, excited to be back with Mickey.

“Yeah, alright.”

They were taciturn for the rest of their journey. They agreed to ride the L for the night while they –mostly Ian talking while Mickey nodded his head and stared out the window- sorted out the details of where they would go from that point on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not normally post more than one chapter in the same day but I have a few done already and I am so excited about this project that I wanted to post Chapter 2 :)
> 
> ***I'm on vacation for 2 weeks so I won't be as active but I do have the next 2 chapters already finished so I will post them throughout these weeks :D


	3. Overwrought

After what Mickey could have sworn was days of discussing but had actually only been a couple of hours, they decided they wanted to venture South because neither of them had ever been to the beach and Ian had his heart set on it. Wanted to “feel the sand between his toes” or some corny shit like that. Mickey tried to listen, he really did, but the kid never stopped talking and he was so tired. A swat to the bicep woke him up from his five second nap and when his eyes sprung open, he was left staring at an incredibly pouty redhead.

"Listen man, I'm fuckin' tired." Mickey drug his teeth against the split in his lip until he tasted copper on the tip of his tongue.

"Fine. Let's get off at the next stop then and find somewhere to stay for the night. Then we can get our bus tickets in the morning." Ian crossed his arms over his broad chest as Mickey settled against the window to sneak some shuteye before the next stop.

~~

There was a dingy motel a few blocks away that the two boys agreed would be satisfactory for one night. Ian strolled up to the counter and pulled out his wallet, paying the unenthused blonde woman with a few crisp bills and pleasantly accepting the room key with a polite grin.

Mickey waited, uninterested in mingling with the staff. He smoked his cigarette while leaning against the outside wall. When Ian returned, he expertly blew the smoke out through his nostrils and held out his hand for his key.

Ian raised his eyebrows curiously. "What?"

Mickey looked back at him as if he grew an extra head. "My key, dumbass."

" _Our_ key." Ian jingled the key between his fingers then started to walk towards their room before a hand grabbed onto his arm and stopped him dead in his tracks.

"The fuck you mean _our_ key? You ain't got enough dough from daddy for two rooms?" Ian had informed him on the L that he had a credit card as well as a load of cash stuffed into an envelope in the bag he brought along. Mickey rolled his eyes when the news was delivered to him because of course the kid was loaded, but it was much to his relief because he only had a couple hundred dollars to his name from drug sales.

"I just figured we'd share. We slept in the same place last night." Ian's throat grew dry as the blue eyes bore into him.

"We slept in different rooms, dipshit. In case you forgot, your seven-foot ass was in my bed while I was on the couch." Mickey took one last long draw from his cigarette then flicked it to the ground beneath their feet.

Ian weighed the outcomes of the different responses he could give. He could get Mickey his own room to keep the peace and spare himself from the physical assault he might take otherwise. Or he could persuade Mickey that the better option would be to share for no reason other than Ian wanted to.

He assumed the latter might end up with him being throttled to death so he decided on option three and marched his way over to the desk, leaving Mickey where he stood. He leaned into the lady and slid her an extra $20, whispering "play along".

He waited a believable amount of time before sauntering back to Mickey with a shrug of his shoulders. "Sorry, Mick. This is the last room."

"The last fucking-- are you kidding me?" He clenched his fists and stomped his feet to the woman. "Are you trying to tell me that there are enough people staying in this one-star shithole that there's only one goddam room left?"

The woman's eyes shifted from Mickey's raging figure, over to Ian's winking face, then back again. "Yes sir."

Steam was nearly spouting from Mickey's ears as he turned on his heels and continued to stomp past Ian, snatching his duffel from the ground as well as the key in Ian’s hand in the process. "I'm takin' the fuckin' bed."

Ian laughed and bowed his head to the woman then proceeded to follow Mickey's trail to their room.

It was just as shitty as they had both expected. Brown stains on the once-white carpet, nicotine residue on the walls and the ceiling, floral print wallpaper peeling off in both the bedroom and the dinky bathroom, and an even uglier floral print comforter tucked into the mattress. It reeked of mildew and what Mickey’s nose registered as weed.

Mickey flopped down face first onto the mattress despite it all, spreading his short limbs out like a starfish. It's not like he lived in a fucking castle anyway.

Ian eyed the hideous maroon chair that was shoved in the corner next to the television with the broken antennae and assumed that would be his bed for the night. He sighed and sat down, propping his feet against the mattress so he at least felt like he was laying down. His arms crossed over his stomach and he closed his eyes, the only sound filling his ears was the soft snores emitting from the man on the bed. Before floating to sleep, his mind wandered through the events of the past two days. In forty-eight hours, he was diagnosed with terminal cancer, befriended a thug, indulged in his first taste of alcohol, experienced his first hangover resulting in a violent fit of puking, ran away from home, and now he was rooming with the most badass person he had ever met in his seventeen years. "Goodnight, Mickey."

~~

When Mickey woke up it was from the sound of rattling pipes in the walls. He blinked his eyes open and rubbed a hand down his face before sitting upright and settling his back against the wall where the headboard was supposed to be. He reached for the remote that was conveniently resting on the end table beside the bed then thumped his head back against the wall, turning on the television. The reception was absolute shit which was to be expected with a duct-taped antennae, but he managed to find a grainy episode of the Andy Griffith Show playing on one of the stations. A pack of Marlboro's worked its way out of his back pocket in the night and laid near his feet so he snatched it and plucked one from the pack then lit it up after nestling back into his previous spot.

When the water shut off, his eyes shifted to the closed bathroom door which opened seconds after. He quickly tore his glance away when Ian stepped out with only a white towel wrapped around his waist. Mickey flicked his tongue against his lips and narrowed his eyes at the screen, watching with intent at the black and white characters.

"Good morning, Mick." Ian offered a tight-lipped smile. "Or should I say, good afternoon." He passed in front of the television, blocking Mickey's view for just long enough that his eyes hooked onto his body and followed him to the other side of the room without turning his head.

Mickey grunted in response and turned back to the television, pulling desperately on his cigarette. Why didn't the kid ever put a shirt on?

"You hungry? I asked Siri for some places to eat. There's a diner a little ways down from here." Ian pulled his bag from the floor and began digging though it in search of an outfit for the day.

Mickey scoffed. "Siri wasn't real helpful with the room situation so I don't trust that bitch’s restaurant suggestions."

Ian froze in place before bursting into a full blown belly laugh, resting his hands on his abdomen.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" Mickey stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray that was provided on the end table then stared genuinely confused at the redhead.

"Siri isn't the lady at the desk. She's the robot lady on my phone. You ask her questions, she gives you answers." Ian couldn't shake the grin on his face. He had assumed everyone knew the software programmed into the iPhone but the thought never occurred that Mickey probably couldn’t afford the product, leaving him in the dark.

Mickey's face turned red in embarrassment and he couldn't think of any smart ass comments to make himself feel or sound less stupid. He crossed his arms over his lap and glared at the television.

"Are you always this grumpy in the morning?" Ian pulled out a grey tshirt and a pair of boxer briefs that were the same shade. He threw the shirt over his slightly damp torso and cringed at the feeling of the material sticking to the remaining drops of water on his skin.

Mickey's eyes found their way back to Ian's body and he studied the muscles in his back that were still visible through the skin-tight material. "You always buy clothes a size too small?"

Ian spun around to face him with a smirk on his face. "I'll take that as a yes." He walked back into the bathroom to slip into his underwear and pull on the jeans he wore the day before. He hung his wet towel on the doorknob of the bathroom, remaining in the doorway. "So, are you hungry or not?"

Mickey's stomach grumbled as if on cue. "Yeah I guess." He crawled off of the bed and sidestepped past Ian in the doorway of the bathroom, sliding his chest against the taller boy's.

He chanced a glance behind him and found the other boy's eyes looking back. His icy-blue’s bounced back and forth between the green eyes looking into them for a few heartbeats then he put his hand against Ian's chest and shoved him out of his way before closing the door in his face.

Ian stared at the wood and found himself asking the same question from the day before, only this time with a tad more confidence. Maybe the big bad thug did like tall, North side, ginger boys.

~~

Mickey propped his diner menu in front of his face on the table to prevent himself from sneaking glances at the redhead seated across from him. What was his problem, anyway? He didn't get like this. Mickey Milkovich did not pine after anyone. Especially not some rich dickhead from the North side.

A crumpled straw wrapper flew over the top of his menu and tapped against his forehead, causing him to smack his plastic menu on the table top. "How fuckin' old are you?"

Ian giggled. Actually fucking giggled like a schoolgirl. "I can't see you behind that menu."

"That's kinda the fuckin' point, Sherlock." Mickey began raising the menu back into place but a set of alien fingers blocked the top. His eyebrows shot up as he studied the innocent look on Ian's face. How could someone so annoying be so attractive? He visibly shook the thought from his head and continued to study the breakfast options.

"The next time the waitress comes over here, you better know what you want. You've turned her away three times but you've been looking at the menu for ten minutes." Ian settled back in the booth, tossing his arms over the back and drumming his fingers against the red faux leather of the empty seat behind him.

"Sorry we don't all have the luxury of eatin' out every fuckin' day, princess." He closed his menu in irritation after deciding on a large plate of chocolate chip pancakes and an even larger side of bacon.

The waitress approached their table cautiously after previously being barked at by a hungry, moody Mickey. They both placed their orders and she smiled politely at Ian before scurrying away.

"You took that long to settle on chocolate chip pancakes? And you're questioning my age?" Ian laughed and fiddled with his napkin in his lap.

Mickey rolled his eyes. "You ordered some fruity oatmeal shit. You act like a five year old but eat like my grandma."

"Your grandma must have wonderful taste, then." Ian dodged the wadded napkin sailing his way and started to laugh until he noticed that for the first time, Mickey was laughing. Not with his lips sewn shut as he had so many times before. Not a chuckle. An actual hardy laugh that made his cheeks dimple and put his teeth on display for the first time. They weren't definition perfect. There was the tiniest space between his two front teeth and years of smoking cast a faint tint to them. But it was a perfect sight to Ian.

When Mickey noticed Ian was admiring him, he instantly pulled his lips together and picked at the chipped corner of the table top.

A silence fell on the table until their food came. And even then, the conversation was minimal. So of course, Ian took it upon himself to change that.

"Why did you change your mind?" It was a question that had been on his mind since Mickey suggested them meeting at the liquor store to run away together after being adamant the night before that there was no way he was tagging along.

Mickey ripped into a piece of bacon after dipping the end in the syrup from his pancakes. "What d'you mean?"

Ian hesitated briefly, choosing his words carefully. "About leaving. Why did you decide to board the L?"

Mickey didn't say anything and he debated on keeping it that way. But he decided on the best answer he continued to settle on that said just enough without telling his entire story. "Ain't nothin' to leave behind."

Ian accepted it at face value. But he knew there was a deeper meaning for Mickey. After the short amount of time he spent at the Milkovich residence, he gathered enough information to know that Mickey had a hard life and he couldn't blame him for wanting to get out. Mickey wore constant reminders of the shit he went through at home. Ian idly wondered how many of the visible bruises and scars on his body were from his own father, and he also wondered how many others there were that he couldn't see. He wanted to ask more questions. Why now? Why with Ian?

He kept his questions to himself, figuring they were stuck together now and he’d wait until a more appropriate opportunity presented itself once Mickey felt more comfortable opening up to him. When the bill came, Ian pulled out his wallet. "Guess this was a date, huh?"

Mickey froze in his seat. If his skin could get any paler than it already was, it did right then and there. His fists clenched where they rested on the table.

"I'm kidding, Mick. It was a joke." Ian watched on as Mickey furiously pulled cash from his own pocket and smacked it down over the receipt at the edge of the table.

"I ain't fuckin' gay." Mickey started to pull himself out of the booth, entirely done with this conversation. Who did Ian think he was? Making that kind of assumption without even knowing Mickey for more than a couple days. He beat people up for implying that shit in the hood.

Ian stayed in his seat, quietly observing Mickey storm out of the diner. His eyes followed him through the window that gave a clear view of the parking lot until Mickey disappeared down the sidewalk that led to their motel. It's a good thing he _wasn't_ a gambler or he'd be piss-poor.

~~

Ian knocked on the door of the motel, praying Mickey was inside after his fit of rage. As soon as the door opened, he released a breath he didn't realize he was holding. When he stepped into the room, Mickey returned to his duffel bag, zipping it closed.

"Mick can we just talk for a minute?" Ian pushed the door closed behind him and chanced taking a step closer to the brunette. "I didn't mean it. It was just a joke."

Mickey reared his hands in Ian's direction, grasping his collar and pinning him against the bedroom wall, finding them in the exact same position as the night they met. "You ever say that shit again, I'll knock your teeth out of your fuckin' skull, you hear me?" His stubbly jaw was clenched and his teeth were gritted as hard as they could be.

Ian could feel Mickey's breath fanning against his face. A perfect mixture of smoke and pancake syrup filling his nose a mere millimeter from the other boy’s. "Yeah. Yeah, I hear you." There was venom in Mickey's words. Ian could tell this wasn't the first time he had fought someone over this accusation. Relief fell over him when Mickey let go and returned to the ugly chair to hastily grab his bag. He shouldered Ian out of his way and threw the door open to make his exit.

Once Ian gathered his things, he followed after Mickey, but took note of the direction he was going in. "Where are you headed? The bus station is the other way."

"I ain't goin' to the bus station." Mickey had a clear destination in mind and it was obvious in the way he was walking.

Ian's stomach dropped. He never should have joked about the date. Now Mickey was aborting their plan and leaving him on his own before they even left the state of Illinois. He really needed to learn to keep his mouth shut. "Mickey, listen. I know I pissed you off and I'm sorry. It won't happen again. But please don't go back home. I-I want you to stay. I don't want-"

"Would you shut the fuck up? I'm not goin’ home." Pure annoyance spilled out in those few words. He led them into a seemingly empty parking lot of a gas station/fast food building and started scoping out cars and unzipping his bag to pull out a wire hanger he stole from their motel room.

"Then what are you doing? Getting snacks? That’s not a bad idea." Ian watched on innocently then hitched a skeptical eyebrow as Mickey approached a vehicle.

"Yeah, I'm draggin' us over here for a box of fuckin' Ho-Ho's." He looked over his shoulders before standing beside a green car parked at the side of the building. He wedged the hanger between the window and the top of the car door, jiggling it a little as it extended down to the lock.

"Mickey what are you doing?!" Ian shrieked and started looking around frantically. "You can't do that!"

"Watch me." He used his hands to force the window down the rest of the way when his luck failed with the hanger. He then pushed the lock down with his fingers and popped the door open. "You wanted fuckin' life experiences, or whatever." He motioned for Ian to climb into the passenger seat. "These are the life experiences of Mickey Milkovich." He shut Ian's door after he reluctantly climbed in then went around to sit in the driver's seat where he made quick work of hot wiring the vehicle and peeling out of the parking lot.

As the car went down the road, Ian grasped onto the oh-shit handle and wondered what in the actual fuck he had gotten himself into.


	4. Desired

It would take approximately four hours to reach their first destination of Lexington, Kentucky from where they departed in Olney according to the GPS Ian programmed after recollecting himself once the shock of traveling in a stolen vehicle wore off. He still found his palms sweating and his heart racing every time a police officer drove past them but it only took Mickey yelling "play it cool" at him one time to make him get his shit together and resign his freak-out's solely to internal affairs.

They were three-quarters of the way there, leaving one hour between them and the next city they would call home. They had listened to music after inevitably arguing over the radio station for twenty minutes before Mickey gave up and let the redhead choose some awful pop music. They had stopped at two different gas stations; once to fill up the car, and a second time to get candy. Ian told stories, much to Mickey's dismay. He still had yet to figure out how the kid managed to never stop talking. Even when Mickey wasn't responding, he just carried on the conversation with himself. And now, he was actually trying to suggest a rousing game of twenty-questions.

"Please, Mick?" The redhead had resorted to begging, his pleading green eyes resembling those of a Disney character.

"Yeah, alright. Go ahead and try to guess what I'm thinking of right now." Mickey looked effortlessly cool leaning against the car door with his left elbow perched out of the window and a cigarette between his lips. He occasionally used his knees to steer the car when his arms needed a break.

Ian stared at him and his shoulders slumped over. "Not like that. I want to ask you twenty questions about yourself and you have to answer them." It was non-traditional but Ian had an inkling that it might be the only way to get Mickey to talk.

"What is this, a thirteen year old girl's sleepover?" Mickey was far from an open book and that's exactly how he liked it to be. He was more like a closed book thrown inside of a locked chest with no key in sight.

"Please Mickey? I'm bored." He dramatically threw his long limbs out, slumping the best he could with his tall body crammed into the tight space. His head fell dangerously close to the unamused brunette's exposed shoulder. 

"Well that's too bad." Mickey inhaled the smoke from his cigarette, appreciating the nicotine flowing through his body and settling his nerves so he didn’t clock Ian with his fist purely out of annoyance.

"What's your favorite color?" Ian peered at him from his spot against the shoulder of Mickey's seat with an ornery smile on his lips.

Mickey released an exaggerated sigh inside of a thick plume of smoke. "Black."

Ian rolled his eyes at the response because of course it was. That was the only color he ever wore. Even now, he was dressed in a black shirt that Ian assumed was once a sweatshirt but the sleeves had been sloppily removed. He paired it with a pair of black ripped jeans. "That one doesn't count as a question because I already knew that."

"Then why did you ask?" He pitched his cigarette butt out the window and settled his hand back on the steering wheel.

"Why did you answer? I thought you weren't playing?" Ian wiggled his eyebrows and chuckled until the brunette shouldered his head away from his seat.

"Fuck off." Mickey rubbed his knuckles against the side of his nostril and inhaled an awkward sniff. "I’m bored too."

A wide grin grew on Ian's face. "So you'll play?" 

"Don't get weird." Mickey's eyebrows met in the middle to appear annoyed. He waved his hand at Ian to make him continue with his questions before he changed his mind.

"Okay, okay." Ian clapped his hands once then rubbed his palms together. “When did you get your tattoos?”

“Fourteen when I was in juvie. Did ‘em myself.” The words rolled off of his tongue as if it was normal as discussing the weather.

Ian looked taken aback for a split second before shaking it off. He should have assumed as much. “What were you in for?”

“Punched some dickhead from school for not payin’ me his share for the coke I sold him.” Ian should have been alarmed by how casually Mickey shared these details, but instead, he was sad for the life he had endured. When Ian was fourteen, he was playing soccer for his school and shooting the breeze with his friends from the neighborhood. When Mickey was fourteen, he was selling hard drugs, assaulting classmates, and sitting in a cell. 

"Do you have siblings?" He attempted a more lighthearted question.

"Yeah."

Ian closed his eyes in frustration at Mickey's blasé response. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"No. And that counts as a question."

Ian huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, turning his head to watch as the trees blurred past them.

Mickey glanced at him and rolled his eyes yet again as the redhead pouted. "Three brothers and one sister." He watched on as the smile tugged on Ian's lips and he couldn't help the one tugging on his own.

"You guys close?" Ian continued to peer out the window, trying not to look too excited that Mickey was participating. He wanted to know everything there was to know about Mickey Milkovich.

That was a hard question for Mickey to answer. Milkoviches weren't raised as lovers. They were raised as fighters. Close relationships, even with family, weren't the standard. At the end of the day, the only person that anyone had was themselves. "We have each other's backs. But we ain't close."

Ian nodded his head slowly. He didn't understand how anyone could not be close with their siblings. Even living in separate households, the Gallagher's took care of each other and spoke almost every single day. They always made him feel included, even when his parental situation made it difficult. "Is that how you want it to be?"

Mickey was quiet. He had never really given it much thought. "Don't matter what I want. That's how I was brought up, man. Someone fucks with 'em, I've got 'em. But we ain't sittin' around singin' Kumbaya over family dinner."

If Ian read between the lines, he could gather that the way Mickey was brought up didn't necessarily correspond with how he wanted to be. It was how he had to be to survive.

Ian decided to ease away from their game of questions after that. The brunette seemed more sullen than he had before, sucking down another cigarette and turning up the volume on the radio. And this time, Ian didn't argue when Mickey changed the station to the rock music he wanted.

~~

As they neared their destination, Ian began searching for a place to call home for the night. Their GPS led them to a hotel because both boys agreed that their experience in the motel had been less than satisfactory. Once the car was parked, they pulled their bags from the backseat and strolled to the entrance of the hotel.

Mickey nearly dropped his bag on the floor in awe as they passed through the doorway and into the grand lobby, decorated in all white with ornate paintings hanging on the walls, a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and a piano just below it in the center of the room. He immediately felt self-conscious. There were several other men dressed in all black, however, they were wearing business suits, not secondhand clothes from their older brothers.

Ian walked up to the counter to make arrangements, chatting pleasantly with the woman working behind the granite ledge. He politely accepted the key cards then tapped on Mickey's shoulder. "Come on, Mick."

Mickey immediately followed, not wanting to stand in the middle of a place that was so unfamiliar to him for any longer. They rode the elevator to the third floor then Ian led them halfway down the hall and stopped in front of room 322, sliding the keycard into its designated slot. When Mickey started following behind him into the room, he produced a second card and held it out to him. "I almost forgot. This is my room." He grabbed ahold of Mickey's wrist and placed the second keycard into his hand. "We don't have to share here. You're in 323." He pointed to the room directly across from his then turned back to his own room.

Mickey palmed the card, his stomach sinking as he watched Ian walk deeper into his room, the door closing on its own after a few seconds. He stepped across the hall to enter room 323, an intense rush of cold air emitting from the air conditioner inside. Aside from the hum of the unit, the room was silent and he found himself instantly missing the constant flow of words from a particular someone buzzing in his head. He dropped his duffel and fell against the mattress as he had in the motel, making short work of passing out.

~~

Upon waking up, Mickey fumbled for his flip-phone to check the time. He had been asleep for two hours according to the clock which now read 8:04pm. He pulled himself out of bed and began digging around in his bag for a change of clothes. The most presentable articles of clothing he had were a plain black short-sleeved shirt and a pair of blue jeans that only had two tears in them at the knees. He made quick work of changing, double checked his coif in the mirror, and then headed towards room 322.

His inked knuckles rapped against the door a few times before it opened.

Ian offered a gentle smile, eyes running wild over the shorter man's change in appearance. "Hey, Mick."

"You uh, you wanna go do somethin'?" His knuckles flicked against his nose, eyes looking anywhere but Ian; two nervous habits that Ian was quickly picking up on.

"Yeah." Ian nodded his head casually. "Let's go do something." He held his door open and moved to the side to allow Mickey to enter. When he obliged, he shut the door and pulled an outfit out of his bag. "What should we do?"

Mickey shrugged. He hadn't thought that far ahead. All he knew was that it needed to include an annoying redhead. "Gotta be bars and shit around here."

"There are bars everywhere, Mickey. But in case you forgot, we aren't old enough." Ian said pointedly while disrobing down to his underwear.

Mickey licked his lips, counting each individual muscle in Ian's abdomen before turning away with increasingly hot cheeks. "I have a fake."

"Yeah, well I don't. Plus, I don't want to just sit." He buttoned his pants and began sliding a belt through the loops. "I want to dance."

Mickey didn't know it was possible to roll his eyes as hard as he did in that moment. "I don't dance."

"Oh come on!" Ian stepped closer to the brunette, now fully clothed in an emerald green v-neck tshirt. "We're supposed to be living!" He couldn't help but cringe at the irony of his own statement.

Mickey mulled over his words. This plan was initiated by the thought that Ian would be experiencing things for the first time. Who was he to tell a boy on his last leg of life that he couldn't dance a little? "Fine. But I ain’t dancin'."

Ian pumped a victorious fist in the air, surprised by how easily the other man cracked. "But, I still don't have an ID."

"Like they're gonna turn away some pretty rich boy." The words fell out of his mouth before he even knew what was happening.

"You think I'm pretty?" Ian batted his eyelashes and smirked at the aggravation bubbling in Mickey's body. Maybe he should've been scared after the last time he had accused such a thing. But the irritation felt different this time. Rather than being directed at Ian, it seemed to be internal. That he was upset over his admission rather than Ian’s implication.

"No. I don't." Mickey stomped off with a blush painted across his cheeks.

~~

If someone told Mickey Milkovich three days ago that on this day he would be sitting at a bar tossing back shots of whiskey, it would have sounded like any other Saturday. However, if that same someone told him he'd be taking shots of whiskey in a cowboy bar in Lexington, Kentucky watching a rich, fire-haired boy shake his ass in the middle of the small dance floor, he would have pulled out his AK47 and shot them where they stood.

Getting Ian in was easy because of course Saturday nights were Gay Nights. Why wouldn't they be? They practically begged Ian to enter their bar as soon as he stepped up to the doorway. Ian provided the cash, Mickey provided the ID, and the bartender provided the alcohol. It was a beautiful plan.

But even more beautiful was the way the flashing lights reflected off of Ian's pasty skin. The way his body rolled with the music as if it were specifically designed for it. The way Ian smiled so freely like he didn't have a single care in the world. He looked invincible. As if the weight of the world wasn't crushing his masterfully sculpted shoulders. As if death didn't plague his lungs underneath his broad chest. Mickey didn't understand it. He wanted to, but he couldn't. There were so many evil people in the world; hell, he lived with one of the most evil people he had ever known. So why Ian? Why now? The only explanation Mickey could conjure was that he was too good for this world. Too pure.

Mickey gripped the shot glass so tight he was surprised it didn't shatter from the impact. He released the glass to press the heels of his hands against his eyes, warding off the tears forming there. Maybe it was the alcohol coursing through him. Or maybe it was the part of him that hadn't been corrupted by Terry. But he made himself a promise in that moment that he was going to protect Ian for the rest of his life.

~~

Thirty minutes later, Ian danced his way over to Mickey, flashing him a coy smirk.

"Havin' fun?" Mickey held out a shot glass for Ian as he had multiple times that night. When the redhead pressed his fingers against Mickey's wrist, leading the glass back to the counter, Mickey raised his eyebrows suspiciously. "You done for the night?"

Ian's eyes were hooded and dark. "Just want something different."

Mickey nodded his head and reached for the little plastic menu that listed their specialty drinks. "You want some of that fruity shit?" He froze on his barstool when long fingers tucked beneath his chin and his head was turned to face Ian.

"What I want isn't on the menu." Ian's voice was husky, almost unrecognizably so.

Mickey's eyes widened but he made no effort to remove the hand on him. He swallowed hard.

Ian ran his fingers down from Mickey's chin, tracing a long line with his index finger over his Adam's apple to his collarbone, pulling the loose collar of his shirt down to expose the bone. He leaned forward, breath tickling the tender skin of Mickey's neck.

Mickey's eyes fluttered shut as the redhead's soft lips landed gently just below his earlobe. Teeth raked against the shell of his ear then a light whisper trickled in. "I want you."

Mickey adjusted the hardening crotch of his pants then raised his hand to cup the back of Ian's neck and tilted his head back as wet kisses began splaying against his alabaster skin. His throat, the space between his neck and his shoulder, his jaw line; they were all being assaulted by Ian's tongue and lips and teeth. All sense of gentleness gone as quick as it came.

Ian slid his hand from atop Mickey's shoulder, across his chest, over his little belly, and landed in a firm grip on his inner thigh. "Want you so bad."

Mickey bit his bottom lip and moaned quietly in response.

"You want me?" Ian admired his work on Mickey's neck, planting a simple kiss against the wine-colored stain he created then forming a trail from the mark, to his jawline, to his still-healing cheekbone, to the corner of his mouth, to his-

"Not like this." Mickey turned his head just before Ian could settle against his lips. When Ian tried again, he pressed a firm hand between his pectorals, restraining him from moving closer. "You're drunk, Gallagher."

"So?" Ian pushed his weight against Mickey's hand, causing the shorter man to stand up from his stool.

"So, we need to get you back to the hotel." Mickey pressed his free hand against his pants, willing his erection down.

Ian's smirk returned. "'Cause there's a bed there?" He slurred.

"Yeah. So you can go to sleep." Mickey slid enough money to pay for the shot neither of them took plus a tip, then began guiding a pouting Ian out the door.

"Don't you want me?" Ian stumbled through the doorway, tripping over his own feet occasionally as he leaned against Mickey.

Mickey chose to ignore the question. "How do I keep gettin' stuck draggin' your drunk ass places?"

"Because." Hiccup. "You're a nice person, Mick."

"Yeah, yeah." He looped one arm around Ian's waist to keep him steady.

"You're like the nicest person I've ever-" Hiccup. "Met."

"Don't push it." Mickey had never once been called nice before in his life. He never had a reason to be labeled that way.

"I mean it!" Ian argued.

They let the conversation fall, the only sound between them was Ian's hiccuping and humming of the song that was playing as they exited the bar.

The awkwardness of walking into the hotel was even worse the second time, however this time it was more because of Ian than Mickey.

He pulled them all the way to the elevator then to Ian's room. "Where's your key, man?"

Ian tilted his head to rest on Mickey's shoulder. "My pocket."

"Yeah, okay. Which one?" Mickey raised his eyebrows, unamused.

"Gotta find out." Ian sang with closed eyes and offered a flirtatious smile.

Mickey bit down on the inside of his cheek then started fishing through Ian's front pockets. A red heat was working its way across his face as he fingered through the material without prevail. He actually felt as though his body temperature raised ten degrees when he moved to Ian's back pockets. Ian's giggling didn't help. He found the keycard deep in his right-back pocket then slid it inside the slot. He pushed Ian's body into the door to hold it open then deposited him on top of his mattress. "Get under the covers."

Ian stared up at him, trying to look sexy but he just looked flat out shit faced. "Get in with me."

"No. You're goin' to bed. So get under the fuckin’ covers." Mickey crossed his arms over his chest, standing his ground.

"You're no fun." Ian kicked his shoes off then sloppily pulled his jeans off and crawled under the soft sheets.

His lips pursed at the comment but he knew he was making the right choice. "Good. You're gonna feel like shit tomorrow." Mickey warned then turned to exit.

"Will you stay with me?" Ian's voice had mostly returned to normal, sounding sleepy and slurred rather than sultry.

"No." Mickey shook his head. Despite all the reasons he wanted to crawl in next to Ian, there were twice as many why he shouldn't.

Ian didn't respond, as he had already fallen into a deep, drunken sleep.

Mickey looked at him for a moment before walking quietly to the side of his bed. He peered down at the sleeping figure and pulled a shaky breath in through his nose. He reached to rest his hand on the side of his face, brushing a few long strands of hair from his slightly sweaty forehead. “G’night, Ian.” With that, he walked towards the door and flipped the light off, pulling the door shut quietly and shuffling to room 323.


	5. Breathless

_Ian walked from the shoreline and into the water, keeping his eyes open as he submerged his body beneath the waves. He swam to the bottom passing the sea creatures at the ocean floor. Resting at the lowest point was a massive, gaudy city lit up by the jellyfish passing by. He swam closer, admiring the beauty held inside the deep blue. He played with a stingray, danced with a mermaid, and had a meal with the fish kingdom. He was amazed at how free he felt while swimming in the salty water as opposed to the chlorinated pool water he was used to. But he was even more surprised by how long he was able to be underwater._

_As the water grew darker, from the sun setting on above, he figured it was time to reemerge, leaving the city behind._

_When he began to swim to the surface, water filled his lungs. His body grew heavier, making it harder for him to swim to the top. He started to scream for help despite knowing that no one could save him. His words were lost in empty bubbles that rose to the surface and popped without a trace. His arms pushed through the water, trying desperately to push him into the warm air but he slowed down as if something was pulling him back to the city below. He was drowning. His vision was blurring._

Ian woke up with a start and he knew immediately that something was wrong with him. Not only because his hangover was in full swing, it was deeper than that. His chest felt tight and heavy and he was finding it hard to breathe. He gripped his chest, pleading for air to fill his lungs. At first he thought it might've been a panic attack from his dream, then he remembered his illness. He had put the thought in the back of his mind ever since he met Mickey but now it was coming back in full swing. The sudden pain and urgency was similar to the day he was diagnosed; the whole reason he visited Dr. Teller. But this time it was worse. He needed help.

He threw the sheets off of his body, tears forming in his eyes as he started to wheeze. All of the nauseous feelings in his stomach from his alcohol indulgence were temporarily forgotten as he ran himself to his door then across the hall to room 323. He raised a shaking hand and frantically pounded on the door. He couldn't muster the breath to yell for Mickey, but luckily the brunette pulled his door open.

His usual grouchy disposition dissipated immediately when he peered into Ian's wild and desperate eyes. He placed his hands against his shoulders, centering his focus on him. "What's happening?" Mickey's voice was level and calm despite his confusion.

Ian shook his head as tears started to stream down his flushed cheeks. "Mick I can't-" his large hand grasped his throat, begging Mickey to fill in the rest of his sentence when he wasn't able to.

"Okay, you need to calm down. C'mon." Mickey led Ian into his room then down to sit on the bed. Once they were both seated, he returned his hands to Ian's shoulders, slowly rubbing them down Ian's biceps to soothe his panic. "Shh. It's okay. Look at me." Mickey modeled even breathing, hoping if Ian could manage to calm down, he could pull the air into his lungs. He reached one hand to Ian's cheek, swiping his thumb against the tears painting the constellations of freckles formed there.

Mickey didn't have any experience with lung cancer, but he knew a lot about panic attacks as he often had his own. Usually they were at night and he was always by himself, which forced him to learn methods of recollecting himself and easing the breaths in and out of his body to bring him back to the real world. He knew Ian was suffering from something else but he was determined to try his best to help.

Ian leaned into Mickey's touch, eyes shifting back and forth between the calm sea of Mickey's blue's. It reminded him of what he imagined the crystal clear waters would look like surrounding a tropical island. He transported himself there. Despite the dream he had woken up from, he found peace where he imagined being now. He wasn't alone this time. He was with Mickey. Sitting in the sand as the tide crashed against the beach sending waves of that serene blue over their feet. The warm breeze stroking their bodies the way Mickey's hands were stroking his arm. He pictured that perfect smile he caught a glimpse of at the diner spreading Mickey's pink pout so he could admire the happiness the brunette kept hidden away. Ian could almost feel their fingers intertwined against the grains of sand beneath their hands, the sounds of seagulls calling to each other overhead.

His chest began to rise and fall more rhythmically, lungs filling with deeper breaths. Mickey's voice was the smoothest sound he had ever heard, repeatedly telling him he would be okay. He leaned his forehead against Mickey's shoulder, expecting to be instantly pushed away. Instead, strong arms were wrapped around his body and a hand was placed against the back of his head, fingers lightly stroking the nape of his neck, holding him in place.

Ian continued to cry, overwhelmed by his medical emergency as well as the compassion coming from this man he had only met a few days before. Rather than sending Ian away, he took him into his arms and didn't let go.

After a few minutes, Ian's breathing came back to him. The tightness in his chest was still very much present, but at least his lungs were inflating. He raised his reddened, damp face to peer at Mickey who was making no attempt to retract his arms. "Thank you." Ian whispered. Those two simple words couldn't convey everything he wanted to say in that moment but they were the best he could do.

Mickey nodded his head and whispered back, "I've got you." Rubbing the pads of his fingertips into the shaved hair on Ian's scalp, then up to the longer strands. He had never been good at composing his feelings into sentences. But he promised himself that he was going to take care of Ian whether the redhead knew it or not and he was nothing if not a man of his word.

The three words made Ian's heart swell. After hearing Mickey's tales of his relationship with his siblings and the way he was raised, he knew it was hard for Mickey to care about anyone. That he didn't know how. But in his own way, he cared about Ian and he had shown it from their first encounter. Ian was determined to show Mickey that letting people into his life didn't always have to be a bad thing.

~~

"Why don't we just stay in today?" Mickey asked while he was towel drying his hair. He sat with Ian for as long as he needed then once he seemed as collected as he could be, Mickey let him use his shower before he took one of his own.

"That sounds great." Ian was curled up on Mickey's side of the bed, occasionally sniffing the brunettes pillowcase, getting high off the smell that could only be described as Mickey. His eyes stilled on Mickey's short figure exiting the doorway to cross to the front of the room. Unlike Ian, Mickey took clothes with him and dressed inside the bathroom.

Mickey plucked the single-sided menu from the television stand then began raking their options over. He sat down on the bed, nudging Ian's legs with his hand. "Get the fuck off my side." When Ian smirked at him from beneath the covers, he rolled his eyes and moved to the other side of the mattress, wondering when he turned so soft.

"Do they have anything good?" Ian inquired, raising his head just enough to peek at the menu.

"Yeah if you like eatin' shit you can't pronounce." Mickey searched desperately for a meal that didn't cost as much as his house payment with a name that didn't sound like it needed to be eaten with an orchestra performing in the background.

Ian snatched the menu from Mickey, releasing a harsh cough into his arm. He looked at their choices. "You can't pronounce lobster?" He chuckled at his own sarcasm.

"Fuck off." Mickey crossed his arms in his lap and grabbed the remote to turn up the volume on the television, drowning out Ian's laughter.

Ian grabbed for the phone and dialed the number for room service. He placed two orders of lobster then clicked the landline back in its place. "Is that Steven Seagal?" He narrowed his eyes at the television screen.

"He's got a powerful ponytail, man. Don't disrespect it." All joking in Mickey's tone was gone.

Ian stared at him for a moment then shook his head disapprovingly. "Van Damme is so much better."

Mickey shot him a look of disbelief then pointed a stern finger to the door. "Get the fuck out of my bed."

Ian laughed harder and rolled onto his side to face the irritated thug. He knew Mickey was trying to look intimidating and most of the time, he did. But Ian thought he looked cute instead when he was all riled up over the smallest of things. So, he continued to poke the bear. "Have you seen Double Impact Van Damme? That is some double- _Damme_."

When Mickey shoved his arm, his laugh grew louder causing the shorter man to get off of the mattress and walk to the side Ian occupied. He grabbed his arm and started to pull him out of the bed. "Get your corny ass out of my room. I'm eatin' both lobsters."

"Like hell you are!" Ian took ahold of Mickey's arms and pulled him back into the bed.

They wrestled playfully until Mickey was on top, legs straddling Ian's hips and pinning the strong arms of his opponent above his head. They were both laughing, chests moving rapidly. As Mickey looked down at Ian's face, a mutual silence fell over both of them. Their eyes had a voiceless conversation, and in a split second, Mickey was leaning down and Ian was sitting up the best he could from his current position. Eager lips crashed hastily against each other.

Mickey released Ian's arms to allows the redhead to sit up, settling his body against the headboard with the shorter man seated fully in his lap. He rested his arms loosely around Mickey's shoulders and felt strong hands cup his cheeks.

Ian was the first to part his lips, allowing Mickey's tongue access. The electricity between the two of them was so strong they were both visibly shaking. Teeth tapped together, noses bumped, and tongues tangled into a beautiful mess of needed passion.

Tattooed fingers wove in and out of fiery tresses. Freckled hands gripped cotton, tugging their bodies impossibly closer. Ian could feel hard heat pressed against his abdomen through Mickey's sweatpants and knew he wasn't hiding his own erection resting achingly underneath Mickey's fleshy ass.

He rubbed his hands against Mickey's chest before putting his full palm flank against it and shoving him onto his back. He took control of the kiss for a few minutes as his hands wandered curiously around the muscles of the thug's body. He knew Mickey was incredibly closeted and the last thing he wanted was to scare him off but he wanted him so bad that his reluctance was overshadowed by necessity.

Mickey breathed heavily into Ian's mouth when long fingers gripped his girth through the material of his pants. This was what he wanted. He couldn't say it. Or initiate it. But like hell was he going to stop it. From the minute he laid eyes on the tall, sculpted redhead in the liquor store, he was captivated.

Ian stroked Mickey's shaft slowly before walking his fingers to his waistband and dipping his hand inside not only his sweatpants, but his boxers as well.

"Is this okay?" On Mickey's approving nod, he gripped Mickey's solid cock and began pumping him slowly but with intent. He felt himself hardening to his maximum potential when the other man keened at the touch. He ran his thumb over the slit at the tip, drawing the drip of precum down his shaft. When he peered into Mickey's blown pupils, he was done for.

He pulled his lips away, a quiet moan of protest escaping the other's mouth. He crawled down, pulling down Mickey's underwear and pants in one fluid motion. He licked his lips hungrily at the sight of Mickey's cock standing at full attention and repositioned his body. He placed open-mouthed kisses on the insides of Mickey's thick thighs, grasping skin between his teeth.

"You look so good like this, Mick." His voice adopted the huskiness from the night before as he took in the view of Mickey propped up on his elbows, gazing down at the redhead while he worked. After leaving light indentations on pale skin, he raised his head, ghosting his lips over the head before taking every inch into his mouth. The salty taste of precum mixed with the scent of his freshly showered skin caused a whirlwind of stimulation to Ian's senses.

"Fuck, Gallagher." Mickey immediately gripped red hair, tugging lightly when his cock was engulfed by the wet heat of Ian's mouth. The feeling of his tongue tasting every inch of his shaft made his toes curl and his back arch, pushing into the feeling.

Ian bobbed his head back and forth, hollowing out his cheeks when he felt the tip of Mickey's dick hitting the back of his throat. His eyes never left the face of his lover, and when moans filled his ears, he reached a hand into his own pants to stroke himself to relieve some of the pain.

Mickey squeezed his eyes shut from the stimulation, knowing he wouldn't last much longer. Being closeted didn't allow much time for hooking up and jacking off wasn't even close to bringing the same amount of pleasure as a warm, clearly experienced, mouth. His endurance wasn't as good as he would like.

Ian licked a fat stripe up the underside of his cock then engulfed it completely again with the assistance of Mickey's hand pressing against he back of his head, leading him further down.

"Fuck. Gonna cum." The words were barely out of his mouth before his release coated the back of Ian's throat. His entire body shuddered through his orgasm, sweat beading on his forehead.

Ian swallowed happily then removed his mouth with a wet pop, lapping up the remaining drops clinging to the tender skin.

Once Mickey caught his breath and regained his bearings, he pulled his pants up from around his ankles then knocked Ian's hand off of his own cock, reached inside his pants and picked up where Ian left off. His heart thudded rapidly in his chest at the length of the redhead's cock in his hand, imagining it filling him up as Ian railed him from behind. He bit hard on his bottom lip from the combination of the image in his head as well as the panting coming from Ian.

Normally Mickey didn't give hand jobs to the guys he was with, not worrying about whether or not they got off. He was always the one doing the fucking so once he came, he buckled his pants and left the guy with blue balls. This time was different. He wanted to make Ian feel good, the way Ian had done for him.

It wasn't long before Ian was spilling his seed with a shout over Mickey's firm hand and into his boxer briefs. Once the touch disappeared from his cock, he fell against the mattress beside Mickey.

"Holy fuck." Mickey blew out while staring at the ceiling and wiping his sticky hand against his comforter. He turned his head to look at Ian who was already staring at him. They smiled at each other, basking in the afterglow.

A knock at the door with the announcement of "room service" broke them from their sheepish grinning. Ian hopped up to answer the door, accepting the food and tipping the attendant. He sat the trays down on the bed then flopped back down.

They devoured their lobsters in silence, neither of them wanting to shatter the moment with words.

Ian wanted to ask questions as he always did. He wanted to ask why Mickey told him he wasn't gay when he so clearly was. Why it angered him to the point of physically attacking Ian when he brought it up. But he couldn't bear to ruin the moment he wanted to share with the brunette so badly. So he stole glances at him, studying his profile which was highlighted by the light filtering in through the window. He was beautiful. He felt himself blushing at the thought as if Mickey could read his mind. He assumed he was never called that. Mickey had such a rough history and a hard exterior that most people probably wouldn't consider him a masterpiece. But Ian did. He appreciated every stroke that went into painting the boy in front of him. He couldn't help but think that whatever deity was responsible for their creation woke up and decided they wanted to make something special that day. And thus, Mickey Milkovich entered the world. In all of his beautiful, badass glory.

Mickey didn't want to talk about what happened between them. He desperately hoped Ian didn't try to pry and make him open up about his feelings. Being raised by a homophobic father caused Mickey pain his entire life. He never considered himself gay. Being gay was a disease in the Milkovich household. But Mickey knew he wasn't attracted to girls. He tried for years to fuck the girls from his neighborhood to please his brothers and Terry and even himself. He willed himself to be rid of the "disease". But he quickly realized he spent time watching the local boys more often than he ever did the girls. He jacked off often since he was never able to get off from sleeping with a woman. He tried the traditional ways of getting himself off but eventually ended up experimenting with inserting fingers inside his ass which he quickly realized brought him more pleasure than sticking his dick in any vagina ever had.

He fucked a few guys but that's all it ever was. Strictly fucking. Which is why he never thought he was gay. He was never emotionally connected with another man. He would never stick around for conversation or a meal or, god forbid, cuddling. He never had that desire. However, sitting across from Ian, all he wanted to do was crawl underneath his covers and bury his head into the firm muscles of his chest and fall asleep. And he wanted to protect and take care of Ian more than he ever had any other person in his life. The only people he ever protected were his siblings but he didn't choose that. He didn't choose them. But now he had a choice. And he was choosing Ian.


	6. Euphoric

It stormed the next couple of days after their encounter which meant both boys stayed in the hotel, holed up in their individual rooms. Ian attempted to visit room 323 a few times but Mickey never answered, usually pretending to be asleep. Ian had spent his free time replaying their unexpected act of passion in his head. He had jacked off more to the thoughts of the brunette's tongue circling his and the way his callused hands felt against his skin than he'd ever admit. But he couldn't resist the urge every time the images came back to him. He wanted to do it again. He wanted more. More tasting, more touching. Mickey was his drug of choice and now he was addicted.

He should've expected Mickey to hide from him after he kicked him out of his room. Ian tried his best to convince Mickey to let him sleep in his room after their movie marathon came to a close but he was quickly ushered out at the suggestion. Now he was avoiding him all together and Ian wondered if his lover was even still occupying the room across the hall.

When he didn't have his hand down his pants, he was lost in thoughts that were less dirty. Such as, why was Mickey avoiding him? They had both been completely sober during the hook-up and he asked Mickey if he was okay with the advances. Mickey might've been vulnerable in the situation but he certainly wasn't one to not speak his mind when he didn't like how shit was going down.

It was now Wednesday afternoon and the rain had finally cleared up so Ian was determined to leave the four walls he was forced to stare at for the past forty-eight hours. The room was beginning to feel less like a hotel room and more like a prison cell and the only person whose bitch he wanted to be was ignoring him.

He threw on an outfit from his dwindling supply of clean clothes and took the few steps across the hallway to the door he was becoming close friends with. He rapped his knuckles against the wood, reacquainting himself with the silence from the other side. His face twisted into a look of frustration. "Mickey!" With no response, he pressed his ear to the door to listen for any indication that he hadn't packed his bag up and ditched Ian in the middle of the night.

Pale fist met mahogany several times, each punch packing more force than the last. He shouted the brunette's name again then huffed his annoyance, raising his fist to knock one last time.

Mickey pulled the door open, eyebrows meeting in the middle of his face in aggravation. "The fuck do you want, Firecrotch?"

Ian paused his fist in midair, taking in the view. He wanted to be angry that Mickey was ignoring him but his demeanor changed completely now that he was actually looking at him instead of imagining him. He looked exhausted, like he hadn't slept for a single minute since Ian last saw him. He was completely disheveled and even grouchier than he usually was which Ian didn’t think was possible.

"I wanted to hang out, Mick. I haven't seen you and I-"

"It ain't happenin' again. I told you. I ain't some faggot. So if that's what you came for, fuck off." Mickey leaned with one hand against the door. He was looking straight through Ian as if he couldn't actually see him.

The words made Ian feel sick to his stomach. All of the progress he was making with Mickey was suddenly receding. "Mickey, come on. You-you can't say that." Ian could feel hot tears prickling his eyes. He wanted to appear strong in front of Mickey, not like some weak kid. He had to remind himself that that's exactly what he was.

"D'you hear me? It's done." Mickey's accent was harsher than normal and the tone he used was the one Ian assumed he used to threaten the other thugs on the South Side.

Ian redirected his eyes to the end of the hall, not wanting to show any signs of the heartache he was experiencing. He nodded his head in reluctant acceptance. He heard Mickey sniff uncomfortably, an indication that he wasn't feeling as tough as he was acting. When the door started to close in Ian's face, he caught it before the lock clicked into place. "Can we at least go do something?" His voice was small but his wet eyes were hopeful.

Mickey nibbled on the inside of his cheek, eyes searching for something to focus on other than the red brim of the eyes begging him. "Like what?"

Ian started filing through all of the activities that he had found while researching Kentucky the past few nights. "What about hiking?"

Mickey's nose crinkled. "Hiking? I'd rather be shot in the fuckin' skull."

"C'mon, Mick. It's fun. What's wrong with fun?" One side of his mouth curled up into a gentle smile when Mickey rolled his eyes then started to visibly consider the idea.

"Fine."

~~

The only cardio Mickey Milkovich ever participated in was running away from the cops. Yet here he was, hiking through the forest with a bottle of water in hand, sweating through his clothes. He wasn't out of shape but trying to keep up with Ian made him feel like he was.

"I told you this was fun!" Ian beamed, walking backwards to admire a sweaty Mickey.

"For you maybe." Mickey held onto the trunk of a tree to pull himself up the steep hill they were climbing then pulled the neck of his shirt out to fan air into his face. He took a long swig of the lukewarm liquid, attempting to replenish the water that was profusely dripping from his pores.

Ian smirked at the memory of Mickey's sweating, writhing body underneath his flashing through his brain. _God_ , he was gorgeous.

Mickey grumbled, pushing past Ian's gawking. "Wipe that look off your face, Gallagher."

"What? Want me to look angry all the time like you?" Ian teased, raising his eyebrows and lightly bumping his hip into Mickey's side.

Mickey pushed him again, laughing quietly to himself when the redhead lost his balance and bumped into a tree. "Not grumpy all the time."

"You're right." He pushed away from the tree, dusting off the side of his pants. "You aren't grumpy _all_ the time." He bit his bottom lip and waggled his brows, hoping he wasn't signing himself up for certain death by referencing their day of ardor.

Mickey's scowl increased. "Don't do that."

"Don't do what?" Ian batted his eyes innocently. He knew exactly what he was doing. He liked to push the envelope and it was so easy with Mickey because he got an attitude over everything. But Ian was quickly learning that when he showed anger, many times it was out of fear or rage within himself rather than at Ian. He knew he needed to at least try to convince Mickey that it was okay to be interested in men, specifically him.

Mickey ignored the redhead and continued on his journey. He lit a cigarette despite the irony of doing something healthy while simultaneously doing something unhealthy, showing no interest in whether or not he was followed. He trekked over the hill then stilled when his eyes fell to the view in front of him.

He was standing atop a large waterfall cascading from the hilltop. Natural inclinations from dirt and stone created a path from the bottom to the top. The sun was high in the sky, littering streams of sunlight through the leaves and branches of the tall trees around them.

When Ian approached from behind, his jaw dropped. "This is even more beautiful than the pictures."

"This why you dragged my ass out here?" Mickey watched on, mesmerized by the water falling against the few smooth rocks lying at the bottom.

Ian hummed in response then grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, dropping it to the dirt floor. He clapped Mickey between his shoulder blades then stepped closer to the edge.

Mickey's eyes followed Ian to his place at the ledge. He traced the outline of the muscles in his bare back, admiring the way the sun made his skin glitter. The beauty of the outdoors surrounding them paled in comparison to the majesty that was Ian Gallagher. "The fuck you doin'?" He drew from his cigarette.

Ian turned his head to flash a smirk at Mickey who was watching him intently. "I'm jumping in." He kicked his shoes off then dropped his hands to unfasten his pants, letting them pool at his ankles before stepping out of them. "You coming?"

"Nah. You have fun." He leaned his torso against the rough bark of a neighboring tree, pulling from his cigarette and attempting to count the ripples of Ian's cut body.

After receiving the incorrect response, Ian approached Mickey. He stood as close as he could to him, dropping his gaze the five inches that separated his eyes from Mickey's. "You're coming." Ignoring Mickey's protests, he plucked the stick from his lips and tossed it to the side, stomping out the flame.

"You wanna die?" Mickey's fists clenched at his sides at the separation from his nicotine.

"I want you." Ian tucked his fingers underneath Mickey's shirt, tugging it from his body.

"Fuck off, Gallagher. I told you, it ain't happenin' again." Mickey took the material of his shirt from Ian's grasp to cover his abdomen again.

" _Someone_ thinks a lot of their dick skills." Ian ran his tongue against his lips teasingly then slipped his hands inside of Mickey's shirt, placing his them against the soft skin of his sides. "I meant I want you to jump with me." He slipped his hands back out faster than he put them there and turned around. "Besides, I've had better." He approached the ledge again.

A fire grew in Mickey's belly at the thought of another man putting his hands on Ian the way he had. "Fine. I'll fuckin' jump." He muttered more curse words under his breath and couldn't help the small smile forming on his lips when Ian turned back to him. "And I'm the best you've ever had." His heart stuttered in his chest when Ian's long fingers curled back into his shirt, lifting it from his body.

Ian licked his lips hungrily again, staring at Mickey like he was a prime rib. He hovered his face over the brunette's and ran his palms down the front of his body until he could slide the button of his jeans through the designated hole. He made short work of unzipping them then letting the heavy material fall to the ground.

Mickey stepped out of them then crossed his arms over his tummy, feeling inadequate in the presence of Ian's defined abs.

Ian reached forward, pulling Mickey away from himself so he could take his first full frontal view. Much to Ian's dismay, there were numerous scars painted across his body; some more severe than others. None of them appeared properly attended to, leaving dark, poorly healed marks distinguishably embedded on snowy skin. "Damn, Mick." Despite the hideous stories behind the marks littered there, Ian thought Mickey was anything but hideous. In fact, he thought the flaws made him more human. More gorgeous. He snaked his hands around the stout man's waist to roughly grab two handfuls of his plump ass.

Mickey rolled his eyes but couldn't help the smile playing on his mouth. His eyes fluttered closed when full lips were pressed to his pulse point. Ian lay his tongue flat against Mickey's neck, suckling a little before tugging lightly on his earlobe with his teeth.

Mickey fidgeted under the feeling, willing away the tenting in his exposed boxers. He was only slightly relieved when Ian pulled away and dragged him by his wrist to the ledge.

"Ready?" Ian watched for Mickey's nod in his peripheral then counted down to three, jumping hand-in-hand with the nervous brunette down the length of the waterfall.

As his body free-fell, Mickey held his breath, whole body tensing in anticipation of the impact he would meet at the bottom. When they breached the water, it was as if a layer of fear was washed away.

This wasn't Mickey. He didn't do gay things like this. But for the first time in his life he was questioning if that was because he didn't want to or because he wasn't allowed. Living in constant fear of being beaten for having different opinions or interests wasn't easy. He had always had an image to protect. His own and, more importantly, his family’s. But where he was now, no one knew him. No one knew the thug from the South side. The man who sold cocaine and guns to pay for alcohol and cigarettes. The man who broke bones because he was looked at the wrong way. But now, he was beginning to think Ian might be the only person in the world who knew who he wanted to be. Who he would've been if he hadn’t been destroyed by the monster who raised him.

Their heads emerged from the water and they both burst into a harmony of laughter. Ian slicked his long bangs away from his face before doing the same for Mickey. They splashed each other a few times before Ian pulled Mickey's soaking body flank against his own. Mickey attempted to fight it. He pushed Ian's shoulders and kicked at his shins beneath the water.

"Kiss me." Ian held Mickey's body still, using his long limbs to his advantage.

Mickey scoffed, continuing to struggle.

Ian raised one hand to grab Mickey's chin and turn his face towards his own. "Kiss me." He repeated, pleased when Mickey's body stilled, eyes looking between his. He wasn’t forcing him to do something he didn’t want to. He was, however, forcing him to come to terms with who he was and what he wanted.

Mickey felt his heart skip a few beats. He was never a kisser. It was too intimate for him. But he broke his own standard when he kissed Ian in the hotel. It didn't seem too intimate with him. It was what felt right. Ian wasn't judging him for the way he felt. He didn't think he was plagued for being attracted to a man. He was inviting him in. Asking for affection.

He didn't need to be prompted a third time. He cocked his head to the side and leaned into Ian, pressing their wet, pink lips together. His chest slid against Ian's as he bobbed in the deep water, unable to touch the bottom.

Ian reciprocated the kiss, relieved that his request ended this way rather than with a fist to his jaw. He was learning to read Mickey and regardless of the way he tried to push him away, he had a strong feeling that this was what he wanted. He wanted to love and be loved in return. He never had that in his life. And Ian wanted to show him how it felt. He had never been in love either, but he was always loved by his family. Mickey never experienced any type of familial affection. Though Ian wasn't in love yet, he knew he was falling fast.

Mickey raised his hands to the soaking strands sprouting from Ian's head, curling his fingers into red. His lips moved swiftly apart, allowing his tongue to satisfy its craving for Ian.

Ian moved in time with Mickey, wanting him to set his own pace. He pressed the fingers of his left hand into the dip of Mickey's lower back and grabbed his leg with his right hand to wrap it around his waist. Mickey complied and in turn, placed his other leg on the other side to fully encompass Ian's body. Sprinkles of water danced across their skin as it splashed against the rocks surrounding the end of the waterfall.

Ian massaged his hands into Mickey’s back, never wanting to let go. He was hyperaware of his condition in that moment. The realization that this couldn’t last forever hitting him like a tidal wave. His grip on the brunette tightened as if he loosened his arms, Mickey would disappear or his illness would take him on the spot. His lips poured the heavy emotions he was feeling into the other boy.  
~~

“Sit down.” Mickey instructed after fastening his jeans over wet skin, now digging through his pockets in search of his marijuana. He produced a small baggie then separated the plastic from itself and pinched the contents between his fingers, sprinkling it into a rolling paper.

Ian watched on, perplexed. He followed Mickey’s instructions and situated himself on the ground with his bare back resting against the base of the tree.

Mickey ran the tip of his tongue along the joint, sealing it together then raised the flame of his lighter to the end and took a steady inhale, holding the smoke in his lungs before he started sputtering. He took the empty space next to Ian and passed the joint to him.

“Do you always carry weed with you?” Ian accepted and raised it to his lips nervously, watching the smoke roll in waves from between Mickey’s lips.

Mickey shrugged in response then flicked his lighter to relight the end of the blunt against Ian’s mouth. “Breathe it in.”

Ian attempted to draw the smoke into his lungs, coughing the moment the thick taste coated his tongue. His face scrunched up, tears forming in his eyes from the violence of his coughing.

“Try again.” Mickey smirked at the hesitance evident in Ian’s expression. He took another draw, allowing the novice to catch his breath. Once the coughing subsided, Mickey lifted the blunt to Ian’s lips, encouraging him to make another attempt. He hummed approvingly, a smile spreading on his mouth in the proud moment.

Ian released the smoke much faster than Mickey did but he was pleased with himself for not choking this time. He watched Mickey take another inhale. The back of his head was tilted against the tree, face heavenward toward the hot afternoon sun lingering in the blue sky. Ian’s eyes skirted around his exposed skin. He wanted to reach out and touch him but he withheld from doing exactly that. “Can I ask you something?”

“If I say no, you’re gonna ask anyway so yeah.” Mickey didn’t move a muscle.

“Why did you buy the alcohol?” He had asked before but Mickey avoided the answer like the Black Plague. They were in a comfortable enough space now that he figured he could ask without receiving the vague response he received previously.

“Told you, man. You looked desperate.” He passed the joint to Ian, THC settling heavily in his body.

Ian would normally accept the answer for what it was but he didn’t want to this time. He wanted to push Mickey. “So you would’ve done that for any desperate looking schmuck who walked in there?” He raised questioning eyebrows and took a short drawl.

Silence lingered at the question briefly.

“Nah.”

“Then why me?” Ian passed it back, and settled back against the tree, ignoring the sharp bark scratching at his skin.

Mickey sighed and closed his eyes, pulling smoke into his body to give him the courage he needed to have this conversation. “I don’t know, man. I just-“ He paused, searching for the words he needed. “You looked sad, or whatever. And I’ve been there.”

Ian was relieved that he was peeling a layer from the complexity that made up Mickey. He needed to keep going. To know more. “Yeah?”

Mickey took another hit then passed the burning nub to Ian. “Sometimes, you just need some fuckin’ Jack Daniel’s. Forget shit, y’know?”

The way the words came out, Ian could tell Mickey was well-versed in self-medicating. He took the final drag from the blunt then handed it back so it could be properly disposed of. “What do you try to forget?”

Mickey was quiet. The high was taking over his body. “Everything.”

Ian’s stomach dropped at the declaration. He was well aware of Mickey’s abusive father, of his struggles to maintain an income, of his poor views of love and family. However, it felt like he was learning it for the first time when the word entered his ears. _Everything_. His life was so challenging that he wanted to pretend that none of it existed. “You’re away from it now, Mick.” He didn’t understand the depths of his pain but it seemed that escaping was all he really wanted. And he had finally done it. He placed his hand on Mickey’s thigh and was pleasantly surprised when Mickey’s tattooed knuckles carded between his long fingers.

“Gotta go back sometime.” Mickey lightly rubbed the pad of his thumb across soft freckles.

Ian’s heart thumped in his chest at the feeling. “Why?”

“Won’t last forever. _This._ ” He waved his unoccupied hand through the empty space around them. “When it’s over. I’m gonna have to go back.”

“You mean when I’m dead.” The blunt delivery made them both cringe. But it was their reality.

Mickey shrugged, unsure how to respond. It was inevitable. He was made painfully aware of the fact that Ian’s time was limited on the day they met. He struggled with the fact when it was initially introduced to him but now it made him physically sick. They were more than strangers now. They were friends. They were more than friends. They were lovers. Maybe they were even more than lovers. He wanted to wrap his arms around Ian to shield him from all of the pain in the universe. Mickey was more than capable of protecting Ian from anyone who attempted to lay a finger on his body. Could threaten anyone who looked at him wrong. Destroy anyone who even thought Ian was anything less than magnificent. But he couldn’t protect him from himself. No amount of brute force could cure his illness.

“So then, you’re just going to go back to that awful place?” Ian changed the subject back to the initial point, knowing his fate was a sensitive subject.

“What choice do I have? I’m fucked for life, man.” He straightened his short legs out in the dirt and rested his arm across his bare tummy.

Ian squeezed Mickey’s hand gently. “Don’t say that. You’re smart, Mick. And you’re kind. You can make something of yourself. You’re more than drugs and violence.”

Mickey shook his head, refusing to accept the compliment. He didn’t believe it. Why would he? “Just blowin’ smoke up my ass.”

Ian’s grip grew tighter, hoping it would reinforce the truth behind his words. “I’m not. Mickey, look at me.” He tilted the brunette’s face towards his own, peering at him through his haze. “You don’t need to go back. You can make a life for yourself away from the South side. Away from your dad.”

Mickey pulled his hand away at the mention of his father, the gentleness in his face dissipating. “You don’t know shit about my life.”

“Then tell me. Let me in, Mick. I want to know. I want to understand.” His fingers grabbed futilely for Mickeys wrist, wanting to bring back the vulnerability that had melted before his eyes into the defensive man he was looking at now.

Mickey’s eyebrows mended together in frustration. “You don’t give a shit. No one gives a shit.” He crossed his arms in his lap, refusing to give Ian what he wanted.

“I do!” Ian’s voice was louder than he meant for it to be. “I do.” He repeated, much quieter this time. “I care about you, Mickey.” He swallowed the lump forming in his dry throat. “I know we just met, and I know that it sounds crazy. But I feel like I’ve known you my whole life.” It was true. “I want you to be comfortable with me. The way I am with you.”

“Yeah well.” Mickey’s knuckle met his nostril. “Not everybody gets to just blurt out how they fuckin’ feel every minute.”

Ian outstretched his hands to Mickey’s face and when he tried to push him away, he didn’t budge. He forced fleeting blue eyes to focus on him. His voice was calm. “I care about you, Mickey. And I know you’re not used to that.” Mickey tried to push him away at that statement, but remained unsuccessful. “You’re not used to it and its okay. You’ve done so much for me. Let me do something for you. Let me show you that not everyone is bad. Not everyone is going to hurt you.” His eyes pleaded with Mickey’s, wanting so badly to be let in. To break down the walls that Mickey built in self-defense.

Mickey didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Instead, he leaned forward to press a chaste kiss against the sweetest lips he had ever tasted. He was terrified. But he trusted Ian in a way he never had before. He believed he wouldn’t hurt him. And in turn, he knew he would never hurt Ian either. Because for the first time in his life, he wasn’t being fueled by anger. He wasn’t in survival mode. He was free out here in the forest with this redhead who he thought he was saving but he was beginning to realize was actually saving him.


	7. Exposed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Child abuse

Kentucky came and went as the week came to a close. Ian offered to drive to their next destination; Tennessee. Mickey agreed before he knew how slow the car would be moving with Ian behind the wheel. He groaned and grumbled the entire drive, putting up with the redhead's desire to play I Spy and the License Plate game. His incessant need to ask to stop at every lamely advertised attraction on the billboards made him simultaneously want to choke the redhead and kiss him all over his stupid face.

Now they were pulling into a mom and pop restaurant that was built from an old barn. The inside had been refurbished but the elements of a barn remained. They walked inside and were greeted by women dressed like milk maids and chickens pecking around at the ground.

"Table for two?" The raven haired girl asked while plucking menus from the stand to her left. On Ian's nod, she led them to their table. "Andrew's gonna take care of y'all." She smiled politely and ducked back to her podium at the front of the restaurant.

Ian grinned as he admired the interior of the barn. Strong wood held the structure together, colored pictures were taped along the beams from the children who dined there. Old farm equipment was scattered throughout and hay littered the ground.

Their waiter approached dressed like a farmer; a white tshirt tucked into jeans that were held up by navy blue suspenders. Complete with a straw hat and a long strand of hay between his teeth resting against his bottom lip. "I'm Andrew. I'll be takin' care of y'all. Can I getcha started with somethin' to drink?" His smile was blinding. And also directed at Ian.

Mickey wanted to punch him in his sun kissed face.

"I'll have a lemonade, please." Ian smiled at Andrew then when silence fell from across the table, he shifted his eyes to Mickey. "Mick?"

"Water." His eyebrows scrunched together as he glared at Andrew.

Andrew nodded his head at their requests, not even noticing the look he was receiving from Mickey because his focus was elsewhere. "Would you like a lemon in that?"

Mickey looked repulsed. "No I don't want a fuckin' lemon in that." He barked then looked to Ian when he was kicked beneath the table.

Andrew bowed his head then walked away to fill their drink orders.

"What's got you so grumpy?" Ian raised an eyebrow.

"Nothin'. Just don't want fruit in my water." Mickey scanned over the menu, avoiding the green eyes he knew were staring disapprovingly at him.

"Mhm." Ian laughed quietly to himself then followed Mickey's lead in figuring out what he wanted to eat, leafing through the pages of paper.

When Andrew came back, he placed their drinks down in front of them. They were served in old mason jars with handles. "Figure out what you want to eat or do you need a few minutes?"

"I think we're ready." Ian beamed. He paused for any protest that may come from his counterpart and when nothing was said, he began to speak. "I'd like the house salad, please."

Mickey eyed him with a look that mirrored disgust. A salad was _not_ a meal. "Country chicken with gravy. And I want..." his eyes shifted around the space then he pointed at the closest chicken pecking a few tables away from them. "That one."

Ian shoved his shoe into Mickey's shin again, eyes wide. "He's kidding." His words were directed at Andrew. "He doesn't get out much."

Mickey smirked and folded his menu back into itself and slid it to the edge of the table for their waiter to gather. Andrew looked at him with anything other than amusement, snatching up their menus and leaving the boys to exchange glances.

"You're ridiculous." Ian laughed out, shaking his head at Mickey. He reminded him of his older brother when he said things like that. Always cracking inappropriate jokes to unsuspecting people.

Mickey shrugged and leaned back, tucking one arm behind his chair. "Like you said, don't get out much.”

Ian was only half kidding when he initially made the remark but now that it was confirmed, he couldn't help but feel a little guilty. Ian was sheltered, there was no question about that, but at least he had experience in restaurants. "You didn't eat out with your parents?"

Mickey dipped his fingers into the bowl of peanuts that were provided for them. He cracked the shell and flicked it at Ian. "You fuckin’ serious?"

Ian brushed the shell away then took a sip of his lemonade. His lips puckered at the sour taste. "Yeah."

"You met my old man. He look like the type to take his family out for dinner?" Mickey concentrated on cracking open another shell, doing his best to not raise his eyes to Ian.

"No. I guess not." Ian replied, almost inaudibly. He studied Mickey's figure, now huddled in on himself at the uncomfortableness of the conversation. "What about your mom?"

Mickey nearly sank into the floor. "Dead." He slipped the peanut into his mouth, pushing it around with the tip of his tongue before chewing.

Ian nodded slowly. "What happened?"

A heavy sigh fell across the table. "Overdose."

Ian sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. "I'm sorry, Mick."

"I'm not. Can't blame her for wantin' to get away from Terry. Fucker beat the shit outta her like the rest of us." Mickey surprised himself at the way he let his family secrets spill out of him but something about Ian made it easy. He didn't feel judged for the first time in his life.

Ian took a long sip from his glass, allowing himself time to process the outpour of information. He had a lot of questions but there was one that stood out above the rest. "Do you hit him back? To protect yourself?" The question made Mickey angry. He could tell by the way his fingers clamped onto the shell of the peanut in his hand.

"You got a fuckin' question for everything?" He couldn't bear to tell Ian that he didn't protect himself. The most feared thug on his side of town didn't defend himself from his own father. He couldn't. He threatened everyone and always followed through with his promises of broken bones, setting their shit on fire, or hunting down family members. But when Terry started coming at him, he curled into himself and took every brutal hit. He learned early on that fighting back added fuel to the fire.

When Mickey was six, he was running around the house playing cops and robbers with his older brother. Ironically, Mickey was the robber. In an attempt to escape from ‘Officer Iggy’, he ran around the corner and into the coffee table in the center of the living room where his father was making a drug deal with some of the locals. They were testing the product when Mickey’s body fell into the table, causing a cloud of white cocaine to flutter away from the top. He had never seen Terry so outraged in his life. Mickey was too small to fight then. Too fragile. He fell victim to the hands that were supposed to care for him. Beaten by the man who should have loved him. Taught him right from wrong. Bandaged his injuries. Instead, he inflicted the pain; broke two of his ribs and left him with an outpour of blood from his nose, which he was then scolded for dirtying the carpet.

His mother attempted to rush him to the emergency room but the brutality was then turned against her. Terry refused to accept the charges he would so rightfully face if his abused son was admitted to the hospital. Mickey tried to save her even in his broken state. He put his body between his parents, daring his father to lay a hand on the woman who was only in danger because she was trying to help him. As a young boy, Mickey had seen more than most adults in any other part of town. He knew abuse like the back of his hand. And he would rather deal with it himself than watch his mother in pain.

He ended the night battered and unconscious. From that day on, Mickey learned that retaliating made it worse. He would always defend his mother to the best of his abilities. Always taking the brunt of the violence. But he took it without throwing a punch of his own.

That was as much of an answer as Ian expected but it said a lot. He observed that when Mickey was avoiding telling him something, he supplied a 'fuck off' or turned the conversation onto Ian to take the heat from himself. Ian understood. He talked a lot and shared more details than he should and not everyone was like him. "Is that a problem?" He smirked, realizing that was also a question.

When their food was delivered, Mickey gritted his teeth at Andrew who was making more conversation with Ian than was needed. He didn't really have a concrete reason to be jealous. They never established any kind of rules. They weren't even a couple. Not officially. Sure they made out in their hotel rooms. Ian sucked Mickey off in the off-chance the brunette didn't shove him away. But that didn't make them boyfriends. Mickey didn't do boyfriends anyway. So why was he having vivid premonitions about snapping Andrew's neck like a twig? "You fuckin' mind? We're tryin' to eat here." He waved his fork at his meal, scowling.

Andrew held his hands up in mock defense and backed away from their table, leaving Ian with his jaw hanging open. "Why did you do that?!"

"Fucker's tryin' to get in your pants. 'M helpin' you out." Mickey shoveled in a mouthful of chicken.

Ian cocked an eyebrow as the realization set in. "Oh yeah? Helping me out, huh? Are you sure you aren't jealous?"

Mickey blew air out between his tight lips. "Jealous of that desperate twink? Nah." _Lie_.

"You sure, Mick? I mean, I think I might have a farmer kink. Those suspenders are really turning me on." Ian burst into laughter as the red crawled from the base of Mickey's neck to his cheekbones. He quickly retracted his previous statement. "Never mind. I have a jealous Mickey kink." He chuckled as Mickey started fidgeting in his seat.

Mickey looked across the table to Ian's salad bowl then down to his half-finished chicken in an attempt to look anywhere but Ian's face. He was taken aback by the untouched food. "Why aren't you eatin'?"

Ian’s eyes followed the pattern Mickey's took then shifted to his silverware which was still wrapped in his napkin on the table. "I uh, I'm not really hungry."

Mickey chewed his food slower. "What d'you mean you ain't hungry? You haven't eaten all day."

Ian shrugged and nervously picked at the edge of the table. The color faded from his face and the smile he was sporting disappeared. He didn't have the heart to correct Mickey. To tell him that it had actually been days since he ate a meal. "I just haven't been hungry lately." He licked his chapped lips. "They said it's part of the... y'know, the cancer." His eyes flicked to meet Mickey's. They were sadder than he had seen them. No matter how many conversations they had about Mickey's awful life, nothing could compare to the sullenness that fell as soon as Ian's illness was mentioned.

"You feelin' okay?" Mickey set his fork against the edge of his plate, suddenly losing his appetite as well.

"Yeah, Mick. I'm fine." His voice was uncharacteristically quiet.

"Don't lie to me, man." Mickey licked his lips, letting his eyes dance across the expression on Ian's face. They were both so wrapped up in the adventure they were on that the reason behind all of this was often lost on them

Ian hesitated. He didn't like to talk about it. It made it too real. "I'm just not hungry."

Mickey scooted to the edge of his seat and slid his leg between Ian's underneath the table. He wasn't good with words so the touch was the most comfort he could offer Ian. "Should you see like, a doctor or somethin'? Make sure you're okay or whatever?"

Ian wrapped his long fingers around his mason jar and squeezed Mickey's knee between his legs. "I'm not okay, Mick. That's what they're going to tell me. Then they're going to try to make me do chemo, put me on a bunch of meds. Make me all tired and shit until I'm dead. That's not what I want." He raised the jar to his lips, sipping the water to wet his increasingly dry mouth.

Mickey nodded, trying not to think too deeply about the reality of everything Ian said. "If you don't eat, you're gonna get tired and shit anyway." He wasn't a doctor but that was common knowledge.

"I know it doesn't make any sense but I'm not dying in a hospital bed. I didn't get any say in having cancer. So I'm at least having a say in that." His words were matter of fact.

"Yeah, okay." Mickey was in no position to dispute what Ian said. If he didn't want to go to the doctor, he couldn't force him to. He couldn't judge how Ian was feeling because it was something he had never had to deal with. "So what d'you want then?"

A gentle smile curled on Ian's lips at the certainty of his next words. "This. You. _Us_."

Mickey's eyes searched Ian's face for any sign of falsity in the declaration but he found none. He nodded his head once to reassure Ian that he understood.

~~

When the bill was placed on the table, Mickey reached into his pocket to supply enough bills to cover the cost of both meals. His eyes shifted to meet Ian’s. “Guess this was a date, huh?”

Ian’s heart swelled at the drastic difference from their initial dining experience. He couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face. “Yeah, I guess it was.”

~~

"You really are cute when you're jealous, Mick." Ian shouldered the shorter man as they walked side by side from their car to the lobby of their hotel.

"Wasn't jealous and I ain't cute." Mickey drew the last of the smoke from his cigarette then tossed the butt to the ground. He pulled the door open, allowing Ian to enter first then followed behind.

"You were. Couldn't stand the thought of me being with Andrew." Ian baited as he made his way up to the counter with Mickey on his heels.

Mickey's stomach flipped because Ian was absolutely right. He didn't even want Ian to joke about hooking up with their waiter. The very thought made him want to light the other man on fire.

Ian tapped his skinny fingers against the countertop while he waited for the man to give him his attention. When he turned to help him, he smiled politely. "We need two rooms, please."

"One." Mickey interjected quietly. When Ian turned to look at him, he raised his voice. "One room." He cleared his throat and scuffed the sole of his shoe against the tile below.

A smile emerged on Ian's face so wide that it could have ripped him in two. "One room, please." He announced proudly to the man. He offered up his name and his card then excitedly took the room key. He grabbed his bag from the floor then headed towards the elevator with Mickey. He gave him the side eye, trying not to burst at the seams. "So. One room, huh?"

Mickey pushed the 'up' arrow several times in rapid succession, despite the fact that it was already lit up. "Just thought it'd save some money."

Ian ran his tongue across the top row of his teeth. "Is that the only reason?"

Mickey could feel his temperature rising. When the elevator doors opened he scanned the small space briefly for other passengers before shoving Ian inside and pinning him against the wall. His gaze met Ian's before he moved to plant an open-mouthed kiss to the redhead. His fingers fumbled to press the button for their floor then he gripped the sides of Ian's face, sliding their tongues together. He couldn't tell if his stomach was flipping from the elevator rising to their floor or from the nervousness he felt from what he wanted to do with Ian.

The doors slid open and announced the arrival to their floor with a _ding_. Mickey pulled their mouths apart then grabbed onto Ian's wrist and led him to their room. He inserted the card into its slot, pushed the door open, and then let it fall shut behind them. The instant the lock clicked into place, he was on Ian like a moth to a flame. His hands fell to the hem of Ian's shirt and peeled it from his taught torso. He ran his rough fingertips against each muscle in his abdomen.

Ian separated Mickey's shirt from his body as well, only pulling his lips away long enough to remove the clothing. He was shocked by the initiative Mickey had taken but it was a welcomed surprise. They fumbled desperately with buttons and zippers until both sets of pants were lying in a heap on the floor.

"Don't want you with anyone else." Mickey breathed heavily into Ian's mouth. He drug his teeth against Ian's bottom lip and dipped his hand into the waistband of Ian's boxer briefs.

Ian smiled at the admission and tilted his head away when Mickey's fingers wrapped around his girth, relieving some of the aching in his cock. His knees buckled when wet kisses fell against his collarbone, leaning his back against the wall to support his limping weight. He perched his arms around Mickey's shoulders as he got to work, stroking him to full hardness.

Mickey bit at skin, all sense of gentleness non-existent in his brain. He knew what he needed and he needed it now. "Bed." Was all he could force out of his mouth. When Ian lowered himself onto the mattress, Mickey climbed on top of him and resumed their hasty kiss; all tongues and teeth and heat.

Ian slid his hands inside Mickey's boxers to knead his ass. Gripping hard enough to leave pink imprints in the fleshy mounds. A groan grew deep in his throat when Mickey grinded their groins against each other.

Mickey tore away from Ian's hungry lips to plant a trail of kisses down his neck and across his chest. He inched his body down to suck at one of his nipples then traced each of his delicious abs painfully slowly with the tip of his tongue, wanting to savor the salt of his skin. He licked around his belly button then gripped the elastic of his underwear between his teeth and pulled them down.

Ian propped himself up on his elbows to watch the brunette seduce him. He thought it might be the sexiest thing he had ever seen. He lifted his hips to allow Mickey to slide the tight material from his waist, down his legs. His eyes followed him back up, muscles tightening in preparation for what was to follow.

Mickey's tongue swirled in circles around the head of Ian's straining cock. He sucked him down, eyes watering as the thickness filled up all of the space in his mouth. His head bobbed up and down, cheeks hollow and flushed.

"So good to me, Mick. Don't want anyone else." Ian's eyes rolled back into his head as Mickey worked him. He wove his fingers into dark chocolate locks, guiding the mouth up and down his shaft.

Mickey hummed, knowing the vibration would stimulate Ian further. He didn't suck dick. _Ever_. So he was channeling all of the things he liked to receive in an attempt to drive Ian wild. Which had apparently worked because Ian was tugging on his hair, pulling him away.

"Get up here." Ian demanded. When Mickey complied, he grabbed a hold of his sides and flipped him onto his back. He made short work of removing Mickey's boxers then leaned down to suck a mark into the tender skin of his throat. He raised one finger to Mickey's lips. "Suck." He placed the digit between his compliant lips and once he felt it was sufficiently wet, he lowered it between Mickey's legs. He pushed his thighs apart, spreading his legs open wide then he slid his finger in the crack of his ass and traced the hole.

Mickey swallowed hard and locked eyes with Ian. Fuck he wanted him so bad. He nodded his head once then closed his eyes tight as soon as the long finger pushed its way through the tight ring of muscle. He gritted his teeth in pleasure as Ian worked him open; one finger, two, three, until his knees were trembling. "Fuckin' get on me, Gallagher." He was moaning. He knew it. But he couldn't control it. He whined at the emptiness when Ian removed his fingers from inside of him.

Ian spit into his palm then used it to slick himself up. He placed one hand against Mickey's kneecap to keep his legs spread apart, then held onto his cock with the other, aligning himself with Mickey's entrance. He pressed the head to the ready hole and both boys groaned once it was breached.

"Fuck." Was all Mickey could manage as each inch slid into him, stretching his walls and filling him up. He twisted the sheet into his grasp when Ian bottomed out, back arching at the feeling.

Ian gave them both time to adjust to the unfamiliar feeling of each other then he started to thrust at an agonizingly slow pace. Mickey was so tight. Tighter than Ian had ever felt before. It made his hips stutter then steady into a quicker pace. The sound of the mattress squeaking, Mickey's whining, and his balls meeting his lover's ass cheeks was sending him over the moon. "Love this ass, Mick."

Mickey raised his hands from the sheets to Ian's shoulders, dragging his blunt nails against his sweaty skin, paving a perfect red path from his shoulder blades to the center of his back. "Harder." He demanded between gritted teeth. His mouth fell open when Ian did exactly as he wanted. He wrapped his legs around Ian's lower back as he pounded into him, giving Ian a new angle directly at his prostate.

Ian knew he found the sweet spot when Mickey started crying out. He was amazed at how loud the brunette was in bed. He never wanted anyone else to witness the way he sounded, looked, felt in this moment. He was doing this to him. For him. With him. And fuck if it wasn't the most exhilarating experience of his seventeen years. He'd fucked other men but not like this. Never with this much desire or emotion.

Mickey bucked his hips with each jab to his prostate, the knowledge that his orgasm was creeping up on him very present with the way his cock was rubbing in between their sweaty abdomens. "Fuck, I'm close."

Ian quickened his pace as he was teetering on the edge as well. He put his hands above Mickey's scarred shoulders, throwing his head back as he fucked Mickey into the mattress. He grunted as his orgasm erupted through his entire body, filling Mickey up with his release.

Mickey crossed the bridge seconds after, rivulets of white sticky liquid coating the front of their bodies. His heart stuttered in his chest, his entire body quaking at the feeling of Ian's cock throbbing inside of him and his body desperately trying to find itself again.

Ian fell onto the mattress and began peppering kisses all over Mickey's rose-colored face. "You're amazing."

The blush increased at the compliment. He pulled the comforter from the bed and wiped them both down, then tossed the comforter to the floor. They were too hot for it anyhow. Mickey's chest was rising and falling so hard he wasn't sure it would ever stop. He turned his head to look at Ian and it made his breathing more sporadic. The freckles on his skin looked like the millions of stars hanging high in the sky. The way the sunlight illuminated his hair turned it to a beautiful copper. He looked like a painting. Mickey reached out to touch him just to make sure he was real.

Ian smiled sweetly at him. The heat and intensity of their fucking shifted into a different desire of closeness. He slid one arm beneath Mickey's body and wrapped the other one over his side, pulling him into his body. He tucked his face into the space where his neck meets his shoulder and inhaled a deep breath through his nose. Mickey smelled of sweat and cigarettes and whatever cologne he used and it was utterly intoxicating to Ian's senses.

They laid that way for a while before Mickey pushed Ian onto his back so he could rest his head against his broad chest. He traced circles against his sternum.

Ian closed his eyes at the touch. "I really like you."

Mickey didn't hold back the smile on his face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Ian stroked Mickey's side slowly, appreciating every inch of skin he could feel.

Mickey was quiet for a few heartbeats. "I'm gonna take care of you, y'know? I'm not gonna let shit happen to you."

Ian nodded at the sentiment. He knew it was a promise Mickey couldn't keep. He was living with a bomb strapped to his chest. Each second that ticked by was one step closer to the end. Neither of them knew how much time he had. But he still chose to believe him. "I know."

"We're gonna get to the beach. You're gonna feel the fuckin' sand between your toes." Mickey sniffed and nibbled on the corner of his mouth, holding back the tears threatening to fall.

Ian raised his hand from Mickey's side to his hair and brushed it back. "I can't wait to see the ocean with you."

Mickey nodded and settled his body with increased pressure against Ian, wanting to be as close as humanly possible. He planted a soft kiss on Ian's chest, drifting to sleep with images of Ian on the beach and the sound of his heartbeat echoing in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say thank you guys so much for reading this. Your feedback makes me so happy. <3


	8. Profound

_Faggot._

Mickey's body thrashed against the mattress, eyebrows merging in anger or confusion or fear.

_Pole-smoking queer._

The mattress shook beneath him in waves of violent, restless convulsions. Sounds of fists cracking bones, images of deep red spilling, then black. Pitch black overtaking his vision. He felt bruised. Beaten. Pathetic. Lonely. Sad. Angry. Scared. Lost. The emotions washed over him like a wave in the ocean. He thought he might've been running. His legs were trying to move but he was tacked down. His heart was racing. He could feel that much. He wanted to go. He wanted to escape. But he couldn't. Terry was charging at him. Face red. Fury brewing.

"Mick?" Ian placed his hands on Mickey's trembling body. He jumped backwards off the mattress when a tattooed fist soared in his direction.

Mickey opened his eyes and sat up. He was sweating. Heart nearly bursting out of his chest. Unaware of the time, the date, where he was. His eyes fell on Ian who was watching him cautiously. He knew him. He knew what they did. And so did Terry.

Ian's fingers twitched at his sides, eyes wide. The boy on the mattress didn't look like Mickey. His eyes were different. They were full of fire and fear. They were dark, pupils blown. "Mick? Are you okay?" He dared to outstretch his hand to reach for Mickey.

"Get out." Mickey barked. His entire body was rising and falling with each breath. When Ian didn't move, he raised his voice. "Get the fuck out!"

Ian remained stationary. He was fully aware that he should oblige to Mickey’s request and exit the room but he couldn’t make his legs move. Something was wrong. Mickey was seething. Ian would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't terrified.

Mickey rose from the mattress, searching for his clothes amongst the mess on the floor. He dressed into his boxers then bared his teeth to Ian. "Don't make me say it again."

Ian ran to his clothes and began throwing them on. He watched on as Mickey began pacing in front of the bed. Heavy, shallow breaths filled the room each time he passed Ian. Hands pressed to his eyes, stopping the emotion from spilling out of them. As Ian pulled his shirt on, a thought struck him. He walked forward to press his fingers to Mickey's arm gently, offering his comfort. The instinct to push people away came naturally to Mickey when he didn't know how to handle the way he was feeling. Anger was the only emotion that was perfectly executed every time.

"Don't touch me." Mickey pushed out of Ian's grasp and shoved him towards the door. "Just fuckin' go! I don't want you here!"

_Fucking homo._

Memories of a past encounter flashed through his mind; his cock in another man’s mouth. Eyes rolled back in pleasure. Disrupted by a drunken Terry unexpectedly barreling through the front door. Shouts of homophobic slurs. The side of a pistol connecting with his skull. Terry’s body suffocating his own.

Ian pursed his lips and moved his eyes back and forth between the door and Mickey. He took a step forward to the raging man before him. He fought every thought in his head telling him to run. But it didn't matter what Mickey said, he needed him now more than ever.

Mickey instinctually lunged at Ian the moment he took a step in his direction. His knuckles connected with the side of Ian's face. Regret masked by wrath.

Ian cupped his cheek, streaks of red smeared on his fingers. The initial shock of being hit sank when his eyes darted around Mickey who was running his palm down the length of his own face. Straightening himself up, he grabbed Mickey by his shoulders in an attempt to shake him from whatever distant planet he was on. "Stop."

Mickey pushed him repeatedly but Ian stood his ground. Grip tightened. "Get the fuck out of my face."

Ian shook his head, refusing the request. "You don't mean that." What Mickey lacked in height, he made up for in strength. Ian was forced to take a few steps back at the force of the weight moving him across the room. "Mick, stop. You're scared."

"Fuck you." Mickey spat. He drug Ian down to the floor and raised his fist to give another blow to the redhead's face but the green eyes staring at him triggered something inside of him. They were speaking to him. Telling him to calm down. Telling him he was safe here. He didn't have to fight. He didn't have to hurt. His hand started to lower.

Ian squeezed his eyes shut and flinched at the skin to skin contact, expecting something much more painful. Instead, a thumb was gliding underneath his fresh wound. He cracked his eyes open to peer up at the man squashing him to the ground. "It's okay. You're okay." He whispered, reassuring Mickey that their space was safe.

Regret was now taking over. He jumped up, eyes settled on the mark he left on Ian. He told him he would take care of him but instead, he let the Milkovich inside of him take control. Reacting in the way he was taught from childhood. "I-I didn't mean-"

"I know." He did. He believed Mickey when he told him he was going to take care of him, even after this. This wasn’t the Mickey he knew. He pushed himself from the floor and wrapped his long arms around Mickey's shaking figure. They were both scared. But the fear in the brunette trumped his own. "What happened?"

Mickey stood stock still. He didn't deserve to be held by Ian after he lashed out but being wrapped in the warmth offered the comfort he needed. A feeling lost on him after a lifetime of abuse and neglect.

"Talk to me." Ian whispered and brushed sweaty hair from sticky skin. Both of their hearts were beating sporadically. Ian needed to calm him down. To bring peace back into their bubble where nothing bad could happen. Mickey didn't look strong anymore. He looked fragile. As if a misdirected breath would make him crumble to the floor.

Mickey shook his head and closed his damp eyes. He couldn't cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of Ian. His problems were mundane when compared to the ones the boy in front of him was suffering from. Weighing him down with tales of his childhood would only add to the world pressing on his shoulders. "Just go." There was no malice in his words this time. They were soft, broken, and wet.

"I'm not leaving you, Mick. Not now. Not ever." There was a confidence in his voice that shouldn't have been there given the circumstances. But he believed his own words. He knew that in an alternate universe where he wasn't ill, he would never leave Mickey's side.

Mickey's face nuzzled into the crook of Ian's neck. His arms lay limp at his sides as the dam behind his eyes broke; Silent tears plastering themselves against his cheeks. There was so much he wanted to say to Ian but it was impossible to find the strength to speak. Standing in Ian's embrace was more than he could ask for. "I'm sorry." He choked out.

Ian thought he understood. Not fully, but enough. Based on the brief scene he witnessed at the Milkovich residence when Terry called them faggots while playing video games followed by Mickey being beaten as soon as the door closed in Ian’s face, and the way Mickey hid his sexuality, there were enough clues to piece together a general idea. "You're safe. No one can hurt you here." His fingers stroked the scars on Mickey's bare shoulders. His stomach sank, visions of an abused Mickey straining his mind. "You can't go back. Promise me you won't, Mickey. Promise me you'll never go back."

Mickey choked back his sob, considering Ian's words. He had nowhere else to go. The South side was the only home he had ever known. If a roof over his head was the only component necessary to be considered a home. The idea of leaving permanently had never crossed his mind before meeting Ian. And even still, the only motivator for his leaving was going to be taken away at any moment. But, how could he go back to a place where he wasn't accepted after living in this world with Ian where he wasn't only accepted, but cherished? "I promise."

Ian craned his neck down to kiss the top of his head. He pulled away from Mickey to look at his face; eyes swollen and cheeks puffy. "Don't let anyone tell you to hide who you are. Because the Mickey that I know is strong. He's selfless. He's intelligent. And he's beautiful." He kissed Mickey's quivering lips gently. "You're so beautiful."

The smallest smile appeared on Mickey's mouth. Pretty words were never used to describe him and he had never wanted them to. Until now. "I want you to stay with me." The voice was so fragmented that his ears couldn't conceive it as his own.

The admission made Ian break into a pained smile. "I wish I could."

Mickey studied Ian through the film fogging his vision. He cupped his hand behind Ian's head to lower him enough to press an apologetic kiss to the mark he made. "Let's clean you up."

Ian nodded his head and allowed Mickey to lead him to the bathroom sink. A dampened towel grazed his skin causing him to cringe. "I've never been punched before."

"Add it to the list of fuckin' firsts then." He attempted a joke even though there was no humor in what happened moments before. He wiped away the dry blood staining Ian’s skin then placed the towel on the counter. Even though they left the conversation in the bedroom, he needed to ask the question burning in his head. "You really think I got a chance?"

Ian was surprised but he responded immediately. "I know you do."

Mickey dropped his eyes to his fingers, stained with the ink that would always remind him of the mistakes he made. It would be easy to go back to his life on the streets. Beating people into submission, convincing himself that was the life he was born to lead. And he would never understand why it only took one person to change his perspective. But he made a promise to Ian and he intended to keep it.

~~

Tennessee was beautiful. Hot. Very hot. But beautiful. Coming from the South side of Chicago, the majority of the scenery Mickey saw was made up of thick smoke clouds, blood stained sidewalks, and graffitied walls. The sounds his ears heard were drunken yelling, car horns blaring, and guns cocking. He wasn't used to all this nature. Open skies and whistling birds. The soft breeze tickling his milky skin.

Now they were laying across a stretch of red dirt, hidden between massive amounts of trees bordering a lake, barricading them in seclusion. Ian insisted on this one after his copious amounts of _‘of fuckin’ course’_ research. The lake was home to campers and boaters, families and fishermen. But at night, it was different. At night it was home to quiet waves and crickets.

"I can never see the stars at home." Ian tucked one of his arms beneath his head, the other draped across his taught stomach.

Mickey hummed in acknowledgement around his joint but he'd be lying if he said he ever noticed. "Never looked for 'em." There was enough space separating them that none of their limbs were touching.

Ian accepted the blunt as it was passed back to him. He hallowed his cheeks as he inhaled and started hacking out puffs of smoke. "God dammit, when does the coughing stop?" He passed the burning joint to Mickey's eager fingers.

Mickey took a slow, steady inhale then purposefully blew a stream of smoke into Ian's face. "When you stop bein' a pussy." He smirked when Ian fanned the smoke away.

Ian reached a hand out to shove Mickey, slightly embarrassed by his lack of skill in something Mickey was so experienced with.

Mickey chuckled, unperturbed by the redhead's attempt at settling the score. He took another long drag before letting Ian try again.

Ian's thoughts were clouded but the THC settling in his body had him hyper focused on one particular subject. "Where do you think I'll end up after this is over?"

"What d'you mean?" Mickey started connecting the stars he could see into patterns, figures, stories.

"Do you believe in heaven? Do you think I'll be a ghost? Will I just disappear into thin air? Poof. Like I never existed?" He demonstrated an imaginary explosion with his hands, wiping his existence from the planet.

"Dunno, man." His response was short for two reasons: he never really thought about where people went. Death was death to him. He saw it every week. Strangers, family members, friends, they all died. It was as sure as the sun rising in the morning and setting in the evening. But the thought that they were any more than a corpse at that point was never something he considered. The second reason was that he hated to think of Ian being anywhere other than right beside him.

Ian felt like the ground was sinking beneath him. Like the whole world was swallowing him up limb by limb as the smoke took over his body. His words were spaced out as he spoke, feeling like his mouth and time were moving in slow motion. "I can't believe I'm actually dying." His lips turned upwards and a laugh escaped his lips. "I’m dying, Mickey." He repeated it as if he was just realizing his fate for the first time. But instead of being sad, he was actually cackling.

"'S'not funny, man." Mickey tore the blunt from Ian's fingers since he was showing signs that he had already inhaled enough, possibly too much.

"It is!" Ian sat up, brain sloshing in his head. "I could just die right now!" His eyes crinkled in the corners as he barked out hysterical laughter. He flopped back down on the ground and crossed his arms in an 'X' over his chest. "Okay shh. I'm dead." He tried to form his lips into a straight line but they trembled before bursting into giggles.

Mickey sat up and looked at Ian. He felt a mixture of sadness and anger staring at this boy who was actually joking about succumbing to his illness. "Would you fuckin' stop? That shit ain't funny." Mickey hesitated to draw from the joint but he hated to waste quality weed and he hoped that the drug would settle his nerves.

"C'mon, Mick. Stop being so grumpy." He flipped onto his side and gazed longingly at Mickey's disgruntled manner.

"Don't like when you say that shit." The anger on his face modified to worry.

Ian drug his blunt fingernails across Mickey's denim-clad thigh. His hysterics subsided but a smile still lingered on his face. "We both know what's happening to me, Mick. What's the point in being sad over it?"

"Because it is fuckin' sad, Ian!" The volume of his voice shocked him more than it did Ian, who was soaring so high in the clouds that he didn't take note of Mickey calling him by his actual name for the first time. Mickey knew that the laughter was a direct side effect of the drugs coursing through Ian but he was unable to find it in himself to let the topic appear any less devastating than it was.

"Okay, okay. Sorry Mr. Rumblefish." Ian drastically lowered his voice, mocking Mickey's uproar. His eyes widened when Mickey brought himself to his feet, obviously fed up with his behavior. "Mick..." He whined.

Mickey stomped off, walking himself to the edge of ground where the dirt met the lake water. He dropped the joint, letting the remnants burn up. He looked across the empty water, hoping the sound would ease him.

Ian struggled to get to his feet, sighing as the phantom blanket that he imagined enveloping his tired body drifted away. He stood behind the shorter man, draping his arms around his back and clasping his hands in front of his chest. "I'm sorry." He pressed a kiss to the side of Mickey's neck.

Mickey didn't accept the apology right away, too aggravated by Ian's indifference towards the situation. "You're goin' to heaven." He mumbled.

Ian's face lit up like the full moon overhead. "You think so?"

Mickey nodded. He wasn't sure he believed in heaven or God or angels. But if anyone was going to make it up there and prove him wrong, Ian would be the one to do it.

"I hope so. Then I can fly down and see you all the time." He kissed Mickey's neck again.

"Fuckin' better. Gonna miss your annoying ass." His voice was quiet. The sentiment was sincere in its own way. It wasn't poetic or romantic. But it conveyed everything Mickey knew how to say.

"Mickey Milkovich just admitted he's going to miss me." Ian giggled then turned Mickey's body around so he was facing him. He leaned down to plant pecks against pink lips.

Mickey returned the gesture with more ease than he ever thought possible for himself. He still couldn't fathom how much he had changed in the short amount of time since he had met Ian. Before he knew it he was wrapping his arms around his waist, pulling their bodies as close as possible.

Between the emotion seeping from the other man and the epic high he was riding, he couldn't help himself but to want to feel more. And clearly, Mickey had felt the same. Soon, they were stripping each other of the clothes forming a barrier between the skin that needed to be felt. Hands roamed bodies that were becoming more familiar to each other.

Ian drug Mickey to a thick tree and instructed him to bend over. Mickey did just that, presenting his ass and gripping bark to steady himself for the welcomed intrusion of long fingers probing him. Once he was fully stretched out, Ian spit into his hand to make his own lubricant, dragging his wet palm up and down the length of his shaft. He slapped his cock against Mickey's ready gape, pleased by the way the muscles contracted at the feeling. "Ready for me to fuck you, Mick? Show you how much I care about you?"

Mickey bit his lip and peered over his shoulder to admire Ian illuminated by the bright moon and it's reflection off the lake. He was being driven by sadness, hormones, cannabis, and... something else he had never felt before. Something strong. "Show me."

Ian did just that, lining his cock up with Mickey's hole and guiding himself inside the tight walls. His head fell back, hands gripping Mickey's waist so tight he could practically feel the bruises he was leaving against his skin. Once he was in deep and felt no resistance, he started thrusting slow and hard.

Mickey's head dropped below his shoulders. "Fuck. Show me, Ian. Show me what I mean to you."

The power behind each plunge increased until the body beneath him was trembling in pleasure. He slid one hand from his waist to his chest, pushing his body upright so Mickey's back was flank against his chest. He held him there, breathing hot air against his ear. “Need this ass, Mick. Need you.”

Mickey moaned in response before opening his mouth to initiate a sloppy kiss. His grip dug into the bark of the tree so hard he could feel the skin splitting on the pads of his fingers. His knees buckled when Ian wrapped his long fingers around his cock to jerk him in time with his thrusts.

When Ian's orgasm came, it shocked his body like a bolt of lightning. Sending his muscles into an overwhelming convulsion as he painted Mickey's insides white. The roll of his hips slowed as his cock grew soft inside of Mickey, but he continued to jerk his hand until Mickey was whispering his name in weighty breaths and decorating the tree with his release.

Once their bodies were separated, they pulled each other into an embrace tight enough to fit all of each other's broken pieces back into place. They were both flawed. They both had baggage too heavy to carry alone. They were both missing parts of themselves that the other had. That's why they needed each other. To help, to care, to teach, to heal.

"Hey Mick?" Ian whispered softly against Mickey's temple.

"Yeah?"

"I think I..." Ian hesitated, afraid to shatter the beautiful moment that they had created together. The emotion and sincerity of what his heart felt for the other man was too real to ignore. Too profound to not profess. Even if the feeling wasn’t reciprocated, he needed to say it while he had the chance. "I think I'm falling in love with you."

Mickey was silent. He didn't know what love was. He had never felt it. Never seen it. Never even considered it. He didn't think it was supposed to happen this suddenly. But if wanting to be with someone indefinitely, wanting to breathe them in in lieu of oxygen, wanting to trade places with them to rid them of pain, if that was love, he wasn’t only falling in it, he was drowning in it, soaking it into his soul, breathing it out of his lungs, bleeding it from his veins. "Yeah." He took a deep breath before expelling the the most sincere words he'd ever spoken. "Me too."


	9. Safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is segmented into moments over the course of the next few weeks following the previous chapter.

"It looks good on you, Mick. You're just mad because it isn't black." Ian put his hands on Mickey's sides from behind, looking at his lover in the floor length mirror in the dressing room of the mall they were visiting in their next state; Georgia. The supply of clothes they traveled with wasn't very extensive and constantly stopping at the laundromat was becoming tedious. Ian proposed they spend a day shopping to eliminate the frequency in which they washed their clothes, however, he had ulterior motives of expanding Mickey's color pallet.

"No, I'm mad because it's fuckin' pink." He attempted to cross his arms over the soft cotton of the t-shirt Ian forced him into but his arms were restrained and pulled out to his sides by the taller boy.

"Who cares? You look hot. And if you get this one, we can go back and get it in black, too. Deal?" Ian kissed the side of Mickey's head who huffed in annoyance but mumbled a 'fine' inside of several curse words.

"Fuck a dude and suddenly you're wearin' pink." He stared at their reflections, rolling his eyes at the smile on Ian's face. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment he softened into this pile of mush who gave into every request Ian made but he was beginning to like the softer version of himself better than the monster he had been for nineteen years.

Ian's bottom lip was pulled between his teeth, hands sliding down Mickey's belly to the crotch of his pants. "Wear pink and suddenly you're getting your dick sucked." He ran the tip of his tongue along his lips and turned Mickey around to face him before he could respond. He double checked that the door was closed behind them before dropping to his knees and unbuckling his boyfriend's (they had wordlessly reached that level of commitment) pants and freeing his half-hard cock from the material restraining him.

"Can't get enough, can ya?" Mickey smirked and rested his head back against the cold glass of the mirror when his cock was swallowed down by the redhead. He decided in that moment that maybe pink wasn't such a horrible color to add to his wardrobe.

Ian held onto Mickey's powerful thigh in one hand with a bruising grip and pressed his fingers against his perineum with the other, gagging at the way the cock in his mouth felt hitting the back of his throat. His eyes flicked to their reflections in the mirror and he could feel himself growing hard underneath the denim of his skinny jeans. It was better than porn. To watch himself expertly sucking down a thick cock, fingers meddling the sensitive spot that made Mickey's knees buckle with each touch. Seeing the act made him suck harder, move faster. His fingers moved further up, teasing Mickey's hole before breaching. He was still stretched open from their rounds of sex earlier in the morning which turned Ian on even more.

"Christ, Gallagher." Mickey tangled his fingers in long red tresses, forcing himself as far down Ian's throat as possible. The choking and sputtering from the hot mouth around him made his body burn in ecstasy. "Got such a pretty mouth." He began bucking his hips, simultaneously fucking deep into Ian's throat and pushing back on the fingers inside of him until the redhead was pulling back, pre cum and spit threading his lips to his cock.

Ian broke his eyes away from his own reflection to make eye contact with the brunette. "You should see yourself from down here, Mick." He scissored his fingers, delving deeper inside. He flicked his tongue against the swollen head then sucked him down again, letting the tears fall from his eyes when Mickey fucked into his mouth harder. He didn't stop until the familiar tang of cum laced his taste buds. He swallowed every drop, licking Mickey clean. He slid his fingers out from his ass, smirking at the moan released from the panting man above him. "Have I told you lately how sexy you are?"

A genuine smile was glowing on Mickey's face as he reached down to redress his lower half. "Yeah but I like hearin' it." Mickey bent down to guide his hands under Ian's armpits. "C'mere." He pulled him to his feet and planted a hungry kiss against Ian's red lips, licking inside his mouth and tasting himself on Ian's tongue.

After what felt like hours of being lost in the kiss but was actually only minutes, Ian patted him on the ass and pulled away. "Get changed so we can head out." He turned to exit, pushing the door open and stepping out.

"Wait. What about you?" He watched Ian through the mirror as he halted, stripping the pink shirt from his body to replace it with the black one he was originally wearing.

"What about me?"

"Made me put this stupid shit on, where's yours?"

"Oh. I uh, I already tried them on. They didn't really fit." His eyes flicked away from Mickey's in sudden discomfort.

He took the few steps separating them, fingers reaching for him. He lightly brushed his fingertips against Ian’s sides where he could count each rib with ease, much more prominent now that Ian hardly ate. Blue eyes searched for green but they were lost, looking anywhere else. "Ian..."

Ian pushed his searching hands away and continued to exit the dressing room. "Let's just buy your things."

Mickey watched him walk away, guilt twisting inside of him. He was at an extremely difficult crossroads; either doing what was best for Ian's health or doing what was best for Ian's heart. From day one, this was the plan they agreed on. Living life until his last second. He couldn't do that from a hospital bed. Mickey had to continue reminding himself that this was what Ian wanted; no medication, no hospitals, no doctor’s appointments.

~~

"Please Mick? Can't we just play with one?" Ian had his hands folded underneath his chin, pleading with those sappy green eyes.

Mickey inhaled deeply in an attempt to steel himself but caved once the eyelash batting began. "Yeah, yeah, alright." He leaned his shoulder against the wall, watching as Ian practically skipped down the line of glass cases with varied colors of kittens and adult cats.

He journeyed up and down the cases, pausing occasionally when particularly cute cats struck his eye. But the moment he saw a black haired kitten squatting in the corner by itself showing no interest in the other kittens who were presumably its siblings, he started pointing enthusiastically. "Look, Mick! It's you!"

Mickey rolled his eyes, then wandered over to his boyfriend. He stood next to Ian and looked at the small bundle of black fur at his eye level. The resemblance was uncanny. He snorted in laughter. "Looks like a Milkovich."

"Can we take it out?"

"Yeah, why not."

Ian made his way to the desk to approach the teenage girl working. She obliged to his request, offering up the tiny kitten and an even tinier felt mouse toy. They plopped down onto the floor in the provided square of space with half walls. Ian sat the kitten down, which was now identified as a male. It sat and stared at them, appearing more bothered than curious. "You are so grumpy just like my Mick." He lightly poked a teasing finger to its side and laughed when its paw reached for him. "Hm. Maybe he likes me."

Mickey settled his back against the wall with his legs stretched out in front of him. "Got good taste."

"I was never allowed to have a cat growing up. My stepmom's allergic. That's what she said anyway. Probably just hates animals like she hates everything else." Ian dangled his finger above the kitten, smiling wide when his tiny paw attempted to catch it.

"Sounds like a real bitch."

"You've got that right. All she ever cared about was her rep with the other suburban moms." Ian placed the kitten in his lap and cooed when he started nuzzling his head into his abdomen. "She never wanted me. She signed me up for all these sports and tutor sessions so I'd never be home."

Mickey nodded his head in understanding. He had plenty of experience with having a parent who didn't give half a shit about his existence, only rather than sports and tutors, he was sent on drug runs. "Maybe we do have shit in common after all."

Ian gave him a half-smile. "Soccer wasn't so bad. But I hated the study groups. I never needed the help, I only went because she made me."

"Ah, so Gallagher's a nerd?" Mickey raised his eyebrows teasingly and started stroking the kitten along its soft black fur.

He barked out a laugh and punched him in the shoulder. "Strict parents, in case you forgot. All I did was study."

"What were you gonna do with that big brain of yours, huh?" He jerked his hand back when sharp teeth pierced his skin.

Ian picked the kitten up and clicked his tongue, reprimanding his bad behavior. "I wanted to help people. Like maybe as an EMT or something. Ironic, huh?"

Mickey didn't respond verbally, his raised eyebrows answered the question for him instead. It was ironic, but the vision in his mind of Ian in his blue uniform, responding in emergency situations, using the calming tone Mickey was very familiar with, it all made him smile to himself. It was the perfect career for Ian.

"What about you, Mick? What are your plans?" He danced the mouse toy across the tile, mindlessly chasing the kitten in circles.

 _Plans_? As if a Milkovich would ever be anything other than a jailbird. "Don't got any plans. Didn't get past freshman year, man. Sellin' coke is all I've ever done."

Ian tore his eyes from the kitten to stare at the brunette, admonishing him for thinking that was an acceptable response. "You're done with that, remember? You need to make a new plan."

"Don't know what to do. Never thought about it." Mickey's voice was quiet with the admission. He wasn't raised to _follow your dreams_. He was raised to beat people up and steal their shit.

The kitten curled into Ian's crossed legs, purring softly while dozing off to sleep. "Have you thought about getting your GED? Or maybe doing some vocational training?"

Mickey shrugged his shoulders, feigning disinterest. The truth was, taking his future into his own hands never crossed his mind. The thought that he could amount to anything more than his older brothers or Terry was nothing more than a figment of the imagination. "Trainin' for what? Gotta be good at somethin' first for that shit."

Ian rested his back against the wall, lightly petting the animal in his lap as it slept. He tilted his head from side to side, visibly sorting through career paths in his head. "Well, you're good at following orders. You don't like to talk to people. You're good with your hands. You look good when you're sweating..." He trailed off, winking and nudging the smirking man with his elbow. "What about construction?"

Mickey shoved his elbow away then looked down at his hands. He knew fuck all about building shit, but it wasn't the worst idea Ian could have suggested. "Could be worse I guess."

Ian clapped him on the shoulder, satisfied that he was at the very least considering the idea. Knowing Mickey could only stay in the spotlight for so long, a change in topic was seemingly necessary. "Can we get this cat?"

Mickey looked away from his hands, to the kitten balled up against Ian's thigh, then to those damn green eyes. "Where the fuck are we gonna put a kitten?"

"We can find one of those pet-friendly hotels!"

"Abso-fucking-lutely not."

~~

"Lavender? Really? Could you have picked anything more gay?"

"We are gay, Mick." Ian shook his head and pulled his shirt from around his shoulders. He crossed his arms over his body, a newly formed habit after the amount of weight he had shed.

Mickey didn't rebuke at the comment this time, fully accepting that Ian was right. He stripped down to nothing and stepped into the Jacuzzi built into their luxurious hotel bathroom. "C'mon. Get your gay ass in here." He motioned for Ian to join him and he settled them both into the lavender scented bubbles. He eased Ian's body against his chest, wrapping his arms around his bony shoulders to clasp his hands in front of Ian's pectorals.

"Not so bad, huh?" Ian would normally want to be the one wrapped around Mickey's much smaller body, but the amount of comfort he felt tangled in Mickey's short limbs was astounding.

"Nah. Not so bad." Mickey plucked the provided bar of soap from its tiny shelf and dunked it in the water before returning his hand to Ian's chest, lathering up his soft skin.

Ian dropped his head back, resting it against Mickey's broad shoulder. He closed his eyes, soaking up the feeling of the small circles being traced on his body. "Feels good." He said lowly.

Mickey took a deep inhale, savoring the smell of lavender and Ian. Regardless of the amount of drugs and alcohol he indulged in on a regular basis, he would never be able to get as high as he did off of Ian's scent or drunk off the love he was drowning in. The circular pattern he was drawing slowed. "I love you."

"I love you too, Mick." His heart fluttered inside his chest, stomach tying itself into a knot. It wasn't the first time his ears heard the words, but each time sounded more sincere than the last. "Can I ask you a question?"

Mickey laughed softly through his nose. He returned the bar of soap to its shelf then began scooping water onto Ian's chest, letting the soap wash away. "Why do you even ask?"

Ian smiled to himself, he didn't have an answer to that question. "Would you ever get married?"

He never thought he'd ever find someone he could stand being around for more than five seconds without rearranging their face with his fist so the thought of marriage had never been on the table. "I dunno. Never thought about it. Never met anyone I actually liked before."

"Before what?" Ian knew. But he liked to hear it.

"Before your stupid ass walked into the liquor store with no ID thinkin' you'd buy a bottle with your fuckin' charm."

Ian laughed, followed by a short fit of coughing. "So you'd marry me then?"

Mickey pushed Ian up gently into a more self-sufficient sitting position so he could begin lathering up his back. Visions of the two boys dressed in tuxedos, exchanging heartfelt vows with promises of the future, promises of sickness, health, all that shit. He wouldn’t bother to look out to the people attending the wedding, considering none of his family members would be there. He didn’t know Ian’s family but from the stories he was told, his siblings would be blubbering messes. Offering up love and words of encouragement. It didn’t sound too awful. "Maybe."

It wasn't a no, and that was close enough to a yes to make Ian smile wider than he ever had in his life.

~~

Mickey could not fathom that he was once again, seated at a bar with a beer bottle wrapped up in his fingers while trap music pounded in his head. But then again, he had turned into a complete bitch for the redhead over the course of just over a month. So, there he sat. Tapping his fingers against the bar top, eyes glued to the body of the boy who he was head over heels for.

Ian was there somewhere. Mickey knew that. But the exterior wasn't the same. He was thinner. Paler. Restless. But he was out there, trying. Trying desperately to be the person he still felt on the inside. He was hanging on to the remnants of who he was before his diagnosis. The strong, jubilant, magnetic boy lost in the shell of a body he was contained in now.

His dancing didn't appear nearly as confident as it had the first time Mickey was mesmerized by his movements. He looked tired from fighting a battle he could never win. Recently, he became exhausted just from walking to the bathroom to brush his teeth or take a piss. Mickey knew he had to be running out of fuel trying to keep in time with the music. But until Ian approached him and asked him to leave, he wasn't going to stop him from having every ounce of fun that his heart desired.

~~

Ian was thriving for their first weeks together, never appearing sick or complaining of pain. But as of late, Mickey was watching him deteriorate before his eyes.

The redhead walked cautiously from the bathroom after his shower, not bothering to drape a towel around his waist. He shuffled his feet to the bed where Mickey laid out clean boxer briefs, a pair of black Nike sweatpants because despite it being the middle of the summer, Ian’s illness caused him to be constantly cold, and a plain white t-shirt. As soon as he was in front of the bed, his hands fell to the mattress, pausing to catch his breath. His head fell low between his shoulders, struggling to continue standing.

The boy was a fighter, always refusing help for simple tasks, insisting he was able to take care of himself. It broke Mickey to correct him but it hurt more to watch Ian struggle with things that were once so easy. He always granted Ian’s wish of at least attempting to do things on his own before he would silently approach and assist where he could. Mickey peeled the sheet from over his legs and swung them over the side of the bed to stand. Eyes stayed glued to Ian as he plucked the underwear from atop the comforter and attempted to turn Ian to face him.

“Stop! I can do it myself.” Ian attempted to push Mickey away but he was barely able to raise his hand to meet his arm. He always turned argumentative when help was offered and he knew it but he didn’t want to believe that he was truly incapable of caring for himself.

“Let me help you.” Mickey’s voice was low, the feeling of his heart breaking with each word. He placed his warm hand against Ian’s still damp waist. He brought their bodies closer, supporting his weight. His stomach fell to floor and Ian raised a shaky leg and inserted into one side of his underwear, followed by the other.

“I can do it myself.” It sounded more like he was trying to convince himself rather than Mickey. He leaned against Mickey as his pants were pulled on, offering no assistance.

“I know you can. I just want to help you,” Mickey reassured. It wasn’t the truth. Ian’s self-sufficiency was rapidly depleting. But as much as it pained him to admit it to himself, he knew that Ian was having an even more challenging time accepting his current condition.

Once his shirt was pulled on and he was fully dressed, he let Mickey lead him to his side of the bed where he laid down and awaited the blankets to be bundled around his body. He closed his eyes when a kiss was pressed gingerly to his forehead. As soon as his head met the pillow, he could feel his body drifting to sleep. He hated being this tired all of the time but it was nearly impossible to fight off. As soon as the exhaustion set in, he was forced to give in. Trying to stay awake made him more tired in the long run.

~~

Sex wasn't the same with the lights off but Mickey was learning to accept that it was the only way Ian was willing to engage anymore, too embarrassed with his appearance to let it be seen in the light. Mickey flicked the lights off and crawled on top of his boyfriend's lap, peeling his boxers off in the process. The urgency that usually drove their fucking was non-existent. His lips danced across skin so pale it was nearly transparent now. He kissed the chapped lips that constantly relayed the kindest words his ears would ever hear. The chest that harbored the heart that belonged to him. The ribs that looked as though they would tear the skin covering them if pressed too roughly. The abdomen that once appeared to be chiseled from stone but was now sunken in and starving. He was getting to the point where he felt like he would break the redhead if he moved the wrong way, but Ian begged him to stop looking at him like _that_. He wanted to feel normal.

Over the course of the past few weeks, Mickey started riding Ian through the night. At first they both took great pleasure in the new position. Mickey liked taking the reins, putting himself in control. He liked to watch Ian writhe beneath him, hearing him whine as Mickey bounced on him relentlessly hour after hour. However lately, both boys knew it was less about a position of power and more because Ian was unable to perform anymore, growing increasingly too weak and tired to kneel or stand long enough to make love.

Mickey would be lying if he wasn't relieved that by the time he situated his body above Ian's, the redhead had already fallen asleep. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to have sex with Ian, but it pained him to do it like this. He felt as though he was taking advantage of Ian regardless of the fact that he begged him to. He curled his naked body against Ian's, staring at him with tears burning in his eyes that were now fully adjusted to the darkness.

Feelings of rage and melancholy began boiling inside of him. It wasn't fair that this was happening to Ian and there was absolutely nothing Mickey could do to help him. He wanted to rip Ian's chest apart and pull the illness out with his bare hands. To return the vibrancy and joy to his life. He wanted to trade him places. Ian had a family who loved him. Bright dreams and an even brighter future. He had a heart so big that Mickey was surprised it never erupted out of his chest. He had plans for the rest of his life. People who would miss him. None of those things made up Mickey or his life. So why couldn't their roles be reversed?

He cupped Ian's sunken cheek, stroking it with his thumb. The tears in his eyes ran out like a river, soaking the pillow where his head was resting.

He felt selfish for being angry. He didn't think he would ever find love. That his heart would ever find a home. But it did; in the palms of that rich red headed boy from the liquor store. He had only himself for nineteen years and now the only person who knew him, who accepted him, who wanted him, who loved him, was getting ripped away from him and he couldn't prevent it. When Ian passed, it wouldn't only take away the love his life, it would take all of the parts of himself that he didn't despise. Because Ian was the only person that made him feel that he was good enough.

He wiped the steady stream of tears from his eyes and pecked Ian's skin as gently as he could, careful not to disturb his slumber. "I love you so much." He inhaled a breath that was so shaky, his entire body trembled at the intake. "And I'm sorry." His whisper was soft enough that he wasn't sure if he actually said it out loud or just thought it. "I wish I could help you." His attempt at keeping his sobbing silent was so strenuous that his head started throbbing. The unfamiliar salt of his tears crept against his tongue as he licked his lips. Crying was not the Milkovich way of expressing emotions. It showed severe weakness, an attribute that was not only frowned upon, but often resulted in a beating. But he knew he was safe with Ian. Ian worshipped the ground he walked on and though he would never understand why Ian loved him, he would spend every second he had left making sure he never regretted it.

Mickey let his index finger glide from Ian's cheekbone to his cracked lips then to his heart. The steady thump rattled his chest which inspired Mickey to replace his hand with his head. He rested his head against the cold skin, closing his wet eyes and listening to the rhythmic beat of the only physical part of Ian that remained the same since the day they met. The part that he loved the most.

He could feel it deep inside, the notion that the end was near setting in. He had pushed the thoughts away for so long, pretending that the inevitable wasn’t happening. But he couldn’t avoid the truth anymore. He didn’t know how much time he had left but given the state Ian was in, it was apparent that the clock was ticking. The acidic taste of bile tickled in the back of his mouth at the thought of waking up without Ian after he had become so accustomed to it. His fingers tingled with the painful idea of never being intertwined with the long ones they often held, or the soft red hair they stroked every night. His eyes strained harder, attempting to preserve the image of Ian’s once meticulously crafted figure.

Soon, memories would be all he had and he was thankful that they had made enough in the nearly two months they had known each other to last him a lifetime. No amount of time would ever be enough but he was beyond grateful for the experiences that they shared over the course of their relationship. When he visited his usual liquor store that day, he was expecting to leave with a bottle of alcohol but instead, he left with the boy who would steal his heart and unknowingly rescue him from himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** I am @goddamgallagher on Twitter which I very recently created specifically to talk to other people who love Shameless as much as I do/post updates about my work so. Follow me/talk to me if you want <3
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading!!!!


	10. Numb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Vomit and death.

It was a Tuesday morning, humidity high, the rain pitter-pattering against the glass of their hotel window each time the wind blew the drops sideways. Mickey struggled to sleep most nights, constantly watching for the rise and fall of Ian's chest to be sure life was still pumping through him. But last night, he managed to sleep for more than a few hours.

A bright bolt of lightning struck nearby, and the roar of thunder that echoed outside forced him awake with a start. He immediately sat up and instinctively turned to Ian's side of the bed. His heart raced in his chest at the sight of the empty mess of sheets. "Ian?" He threw the blankets off of his body and stood up in a panic. Ian was in no state to go anywhere by himself so the sudden disappearance had him breaking out in a sweat. He cursed himself for ever falling asleep.

"Ian?!" He walked around to Ian's side of the bed to see if perhaps he had fallen to the floor in the middle of the night, but there was no one there. He placed one hand on his hip and pushed his hair back with the other hand, eyes scanning the span of the room. The only other place he could be in their suite was the bathroom so he walked hurriedly to the threshold. His stomach sunk at the sight of his boyfriend laying on the cold tiled floor in front of the toilet. Dried vomit was streaked against the corners of his mouth and plastered to the front of his shirt.

Mickey dropped to his knees and grabbed for Ian's body. "Ian, what the fuck? Ian?!" He pressed his fingers to Ian's pulse point, relieved at the faint beat thrumming against the pads of his index and middle fingers. He stood back up to pull the hand towel from its designated metallic ring and ran it under warm water. Once it was sufficiently wet, he returned to Ian's body and gently wiped the vomit from his face. Ian never ate, so the only liquids in his stomach were a combination of water and bile. He dabbed at the stain on his shirt but chose to remove the clothing instead, tossing it with the towel to the floor. He tucked his hands under Ian's delicate body and pulled him into his lap. "Hey." He whispered for his first attempt then raised his voice to its normal octave for a second attempt when he received no response.

Ian's eyes barely cracked open, dry lips separating to push out the words he wanted to say. He tried swallowing but a pained look struck his face.

"Shh. Don't have to say nothin'. Needed to know you were still with me." He stroked the red hair he loved so much. It was overgrown, bangs draping over the green eyes that once spoke volumes all on their own. "Fuckin' scared me man. Didn't know where you were."

Ian pressed his eyes shut tight, tongue attempting to wet his lips but it was just as dry as the rest of his mouth. He had something important to say but no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn't get the words out. His head was clouded. He could hear the pain in Mickey's voice, see the sadness encompassing his face, feel the tremble in his typically strong hands, but it was as if he was watching it from an aerial view. His body wasn't his own. He had no control over himself. Exhaustion was rearing its ugly, unwelcome head into his body.

_Not now._

"Gonna move you back into the bed, okay?" Mickey withdrew his fingers from their place in Ian's hair then hooked his arms under the other boy's upon standing, helping him to his feet. It was far less difficult to carry Ian's weight now than the first time Mickey had been responsible for transporting him; sloppily drunk but full of life. He'd trade everything he had to be tugging that Ian to bed. His Ian.

Ian could barely feel the movement as his body was surrendering itself to extreme fatigue. He knew he was moving, different shades of color passing by his vision but he didn't know where he was going.

Mickey rested Ian’s limp body on his side of the bed then grabbed a new shirt from the dresser drawer where they stuffed their wardrobe. He wasn't sure whose shirt it was at this point, seeing that both boys wore the same size now, but he dressed him in the first one he saw. Once Ian was situated and bundled up, he sat down next to him and curled around his body.

"M-"

Mickey perked back up at the sound that escaped Ian's mouth. "What?"

Ian's chest was aching, as if a phantom beast was crushing him from the inside out. "M-... Mick." It was nearly inaudible, almost missed if Mickey hadn’t been listening carefully.

"What? What is it?"

When his eyes won the battle against themselves to open, all he could see was Mickey's distressed face staring at him with so much sadness and fear in his eyes. He wanted to hold him, to thank him, to tell him things would be okay. But he couldn't, and he probably never would again. "I'm-" he cringed as he swallowed the words down, physically and emotionally hurting. "I-"

Mickey was holding onto the edge of every syllable Ian forced out. He felt useless not being able to help him gather the strength to speak.

Ian was getting angry. He felt trapped inside of a nightmare. Mouth moving desperately but not emitting any sound. He wanted to reach down his throat and pull out the string of words he needed to say. He needed to tell Mickey what was happening to him. His eyelids drooped heavily, threatening to once again send him away to a state of unconsciousness.

"You what, Ian? I don't know what you're tryin' to say." He didn't mean to raise his voice, not wanting to pressure Ian to force his body to do something it wasn't capable of in the moment, but he couldn't stand this not knowing.

He was drifting between conscious levels, unable to identify his dream and his reality. "I need... to go." He wasn't sure which realm the words were delivered to, but he was hoping they made it to Mickey.

Mickey's stomach churned, stirring up a familiar feeling of nausea. "Go where, Ian?" Suddenly his eyes were damp and fluttering, teeth gritting as he held back the rush of emotion as best as he could. When Ian responded, it was incomprehensible. "What? Where do you need to go? We'll go. Wherever it is. We'll fuckin' go." He placed his palm against Ian's cheek, not ready to lose him to sleep again.

_In Ian's mind, he was already there. He already made it as far as he needed to go. Salt in the air. Sun kissing his pale skin. Water grazing his feet. He was strong again. Happy. Mickey was by his side. Hands intertwined._

"Ian!" Mickey let the tears fall. He was frustrated, sad, and fucking helpless. "Where? The hospital? Do you need to go to the hospital?" Mickey jumped off the bed, ready to do just that.

_They were alone. Sharing the entire shoreline with no one but each other. It was even more beautiful than he hoped._

Mickey slipped his shoes on then slung all of the clothing from the drawers into their duffel bags. He wrapped the straps around his shoulders then scooped his boyfriend out of the bed. Adrenaline took over as he made his way out the door and down the hallway to the elevator, carrying Ian's body the entire way.

~~

Ian's eyes opened from the constant rocking his body was feeling. He was in an entirely different place than before. The world was rushing past him. But Mickey was beside him. "Mick?"

Mickey did a double take when his eyes fell against Ian's face, more alert than it had been earlier in the morning.

His voice was quiet and fragmented. "Where are we going?" He recognized the vehicle they were in. They didn't use it much after arriving in Georgia. Mickey always argued Ian was in no condition to travel.

"Takin' you to the hospital, man. You need some fuckin' help." Mickey nudged his right nostril with his knuckle, nervousness reflecting in the habitual action. He knew it wouldn't bode well with the redhead but the illness was beyond both of their control now.

"No!" Ian tried to yell but it caused him more pain than he was already in. "No... hospitals." They made it this far with only each other. He knew what was happening to him and he'd be damned if he was going to spend the time he had left wasting away in a gown with tubes stringing from his body, pumping medicine into his system that would do nothing but prolong the inevitable for a little while longer.

"I don't know what to do Ian! I thought I could do this but I can't! I'm not a fuckin' doctor. I can't help you. I can't watch you-" His grip tightened around the steering wheel. The rest of his sentence would taste like poison if it rolled off of his tongue.

"The beach." Ian's breathing was stuttered and shallow as he fought to keep the air flowing to his lungs.

"It's too far. You need a doctor."

The words took Ian by surprise. Their entire adventure had been Mickey's idea in the first place and now he was trying to take it all back. "You promised." His words were muffled by labored breaths and the rain beating against the window, partially broken windshield wipers noisily attempting to clear their view.

Mickey's knuckles were turning white around the rubber in his clutch. "I know what I said but this is too much. Can't fuckin' stand seein' you like this."

Ian blinked his eyes slowly, tears working their way to his lash line. This was too much. _He_ was too much. He was causing Mickey pain and sadness and heartache. "I can't go."

Mickey chewed on his bottom lip, pulling at a split he created the previous time he gnawed on the tender skin purely out of nerves. He was torn. He wanted to grant Ian's last wish as they originally planned. But if there was any chance that taking him to a hospital could save his life, how could he live with himself knowing he didn't try.

"Please." Ian broke Mickey out of his thoughts with a broken cry.

Mickey took one look at his desperate face before nodding his head. It wasn't his choice to make. He didn't feel right about forcing Ian into a decision that wasn't his own. If Ian wanted to go to the beach, that's where they'd fucking go.

~~

Ian slept through most of their journey up to this point. When he woke, he could hear that the rain had let up after the torrential downpour. It was darker out than when he had been awake last. His head was dizzy, stomach uneasy. He shifted his eyes to the driver's side, just to reassure himself that Mickey was still with him. Of course, he was. His eyes glazed over the unsuspecting brunette. He never would have thought this is where they'd be. When he chased after him down the cracked sidewalk to ask him his name, he expected to be pummeled into nothing more than dust on the pavement. Perhaps he was secretly hoping for that instead of living out his reality. But what happened to him was even better:

He fell into the wildest love with the most magnificent man that his mind wasn't even capable of conjuring up. Their story was nothing shy of their own, fucked up fairytale. Sometimes he didn't believe that it had actually happened. Maybe he was already dead and his experiences with Mickey were his version of heaven. But that wasn't possible because soon he'd be losing him and that was hell on earth.

The thought made the twisting in his stomach increase and before he knew it, he was cupping his bony hand over his mouth and vomiting violently into it.

Mickey swerved the car out of shock from the noise coming from his boyfriend whom he thought was asleep. Once he gathered his bearings, he pulled over to the side of the highway. "What happened?"

Ian began dry-heaving into his palm, unable to answer Mickey's question.

Mickey popped his door open and walked around to the passenger side, pulling that door open as well. He reached inside to unbuckle Ian's seatbelt and helped him turn his body to position himself over the pavement and grass while still seated. He rubbed soothing circles against Ian's shoulder blades, standing slightly to the side to avoid being in the line of fire if Ian's heaving produced more of the contents from his stomach.

Ian knew what needed to be done. It wasn't ideal, seeing as how they were still hours from their destination but he needed a break. The constant motion of the vehicle was disturbing his insides. The confined interior was making his joints ache. The smoke from the cigarettes Mickey tried to smoke halfway out the window in a failed attempt to not bother the redhead was adding to the constriction in his lungs. He needed out of the car.

Once the heaving subsided, he wiped his hand against his already stained shirt, having no other option. "I need to stop." He was talking to the ground, disappointed in himself for not being able to survive through the entire journey in one night.

Mickey nodded his head. He didn't want to push Ian past the limit he had clearly reached. "Gonna piss then we'll find a place to stay." He lightly patted Ian's shoulder then started to walk to the tree line.

Ian's eyes focused on Mickey's figure as it grew into only a silhouette. His eyelids fluttered before dropping shut. His head started falling to the side, pulling his weary body further out of his seat with the weight of his head leading him downward.

_“We finally made it.” Mickey handed him a glass with a wide smile. “Just sandals and tequila from here on, man.”_

_Ian accepted, tossing the liquid down his throat. He draped one arm around Mickey’s bare shoulders, happiness evident across both of their faces._

As Mickey started back towards the car, his pace quickened when his eyes fell on his boyfriend, body folded in on itself, chest flank against his lap, fingertips brushing the ground below. Mickey lightly shook him, mind instantly assuming the worst. "Hey. Hey! Ian, wake up." He put his hands on Ian's shoulders and sat him upright, bringing back a faint glimpse of awareness to glassy green eyes.

"Sorry." Ian muttered and let Mickey guide his body back into his seat, buckling his seatbelt before shutting the door. Once he was also inside, the car sputtered to life and was brought back down the highway.

Ian was processing his surroundings in slow motion regardless of how quickly their stolen vehicle was moving them to their target. He was tired of being so utterly tired. It was the only feeling he had anymore and the fight against it was useless because he was fighting a losing battle. He wanted to give in this time.

~~

Making it into their hotel room was a blur and he was okay with that. He didn't want to try to focus anymore. He needed to sleep.

Mickey stripped Ian of his dirty shirt and changed him into a clean one from one of the duffel bags he threw to the floor. "How do you feel?"

If there was ever a time for Ian to be completely honest, this was it. He wanted to be done. Done with the pain, done with the fatigue, done with relying on someone other than himself. And his body was done, too. He could feel it giving up, like the gears inside of a machine jamming one by one. He inhaled a breath that made his body quake before expelling the painful truth. “I think it’s… happening.”

The color drained from Mickey's face, turning him as white as snow. He wasn't ready. He couldn't let him go yet. He didn't have enough time to adjust to the idea. "No, Ian. No it's not. We ain't done yet." His eyes welled up with tears, hand reaching to hold Ian's.

“I love you.” Ian tried to look at Mickey the best he could but his mind was already trying to escape him. He wanted to be with Mickey more than he had ever wanted anything in his life but not like this. "I'm so tired, Mick." The amount of energy it took just to whisper was more than his body could handle.

Mickey squeezed Ian's hand tight in his grasp. He was breaking down faster than he could even attempt to control. "Ian I-I'm not ready to let you go. You can't! You can't do this yet!" His emotions overtook him and he wasn't sure which one was leading; Anger. Guilt. Sadness.

Ian's breathing was shallow but steady.

"Ian!" Mickey croaked out, shattered into a relentless sob. "I love you! Please. I love you and I need you here. I need you with me." He had months to prepare for this exact moment but no matter how many times he envisioned it happening, nothing could have readied him for how crestfallen he was now. He patted his pocket frantically with his free hand, removing his cellphone from his jeans. With trembling hands and rapidly emptying tear ducts, he dialed 911 and practically screamed the situation to the operator. This was a promise he had to break.

_"I'm sorry, Mick. I think it’s time for you to leave.” Ian removed his arm from around Mickey, offering him an apologetic look._

_Ian could almost feel himself lying there, weak and shattered. His chest was still rising, heart still pumping blood through his veins. But that body wasn't him anymore. He could feel Mickey's fingers tight around his own. He was trying to pull him back into himself. But he couldn't. He needed to let go. To leave this life behind. To leave Mickey behind. He didn't want to. But there was nothing left for him in the lifeless cage of himself that he had been trapped in for weeks._

Mickey leaned over Ian's body to rest his forehead against his shoulder once he hung up the phone. "Ian please!" His voice broke, body heaving. "Please..." he was whispering now, exuding all of his energy into crying. “Just stay with me. They’re coming. They can help you."

_"You'll be okay, Mickey. You have to let me go now." Ian ghosted his hand against the back of Mickey's head. "I’ll see you soon. I love you." He pressed a kiss to Mickey’s lips one last time before the image of the brunette dissipated in the rays of the sun._

Mickey sat up to look at Ian's stilled body. Then, as if he could hear Ian’s final declaration, he responded with the only words he could find to wrap up the feelings that he felt so strongly. "I love you." He pressed a lingering, chaste kiss to Ian's lips before settling his head against his chest. His tears created a puddle against Ian's skin, listening to the heart that would forever belong to him. The heart that was responsible for the boy who showed him a world outside of the dismal place he grew up in. The boy who taught him how it felt to be loved and love someone in return. The boy who built up the confidence he needed to believe he could be someone more than he was. The boy who taught him home was not a roof over his head or a bed with sheets strewn about. Home wasn't food on the table or a hot shower in the morning. Home was red hair and freckled skin. It was long limbs and broad shoulders. Stolen kisses and warm embraces. Home was Ian.

_There was no staircase leading Ian to a bright white light in the sky. There were no pearly white gates. There were only sandy beach towels and lawn chairs shadowed by oversized umbrellas. The squawking of seagulls and crash of blue waves rushing. His hair was flitting in the afternoon breeze, pale skin pinking under the hot gleam of the sun. There was a bright smile on his face as his gaze skipped around the wide open space. He walked out to the water, sand tickling between his toes. Mickey was gone, but he would wait until he came back for him. For now, he was choosing to enjoy the view because he had finally made it to the beach._

~~

Mickey listened to each beat until the sound subsided, telling him that Ian’s soul had been lifted from the body beneath him. He could tell the exact moment Ian took his last breath, the last time his eyelids twitched as he dreamt. The last time he could feel his pulse in his wrist, which Mickey refused to let go of. Because when the moment came, the light that illuminated the darkness of his world went out. He could feel his heart rupturing in his chest the second he heard Ian’s final beat echoing through his ears. His entire body was numb.

When there was a knock on their door, he took a moment to peer down at the empty body of the boy he loved. He brushed his red hair back for the final time then ran his hand down his cheek, wanting to engrain the feeling of his skin against his fingertips. “I love you, Ian.” Tears rolled down his face, painting trails of every memory they made; stealing kisses every chance they had. Sneaking admiring glances whenever he thought Ian couldn’t see him. Making love when the sun was barely breaking the surface in the early morning, casting Ian in an orange hue. Wrapping his body around Ian’s sturdy figure at the bottom of a waterfall where he first realized he was falling in love. Hearing his feelings confirmed by the other boy for the first time like the most beautiful song he had ever heard. Seeing white teeth glowing in pure happiness as he erupted into that belly laugh that brought out one of his own. Pretending to be bothered by incessant questions that he secretly loved answering.

Pounding on the door brought him back to the reality of what he had to do. He would never be ready to let go. But he knew this time, he had no choice. He pulled his hand away from Ian then drug himself to the door before opening it. He didn’t speak when he saw the emergency personnel, he simply moved out of their way. He watched on painfully as they grabbed the love of his life, checking for a pulse and appearing devastated when they found none. They were too late. Mickey’s numbing heart twanged in pain watching the fragile body being lifted from the bed. He couldn’t help but be taken back to when Ian told him this was the job he saw himself doing. But instead of living out his dream, he was being carried away by the very people he wanted to work alongside of. He provided them with Fiona's name and phone number, opting out of being included in any decisions that were to be made concerning where Ian would end up.

When sorrowful apologies and well wishes were given, Mickey waved them away, head hung low. He sat down in the chair by the window, looking out over the tops of the surrounding buildings. Cars driving by, a few night owls still strolling the streets in the late hours. They had no idea of the tragedy that had occurred. No idea of the loss the world took mere minutes before.

His eyes rose to the few stars he could see, most being outshone by the city lights. He wondered if Ian made it to heaven and if he was already proving him wrong as he always did. He hoped he was safe. Free of all of the pain he had felt for so long. Most of all, he hoped he knew how much he was loved and how much he always would be.

Mickey didn’t know where his life would take him without Ian by his side. He could barely imagine a life without him at all. But he owed it to Ian to carry on their tale and live his life out the way he promised him he would. The way Ian would have wanted him to had he been there to coach him. In spite of everything that had taken place, Mickey pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes before lowering them and resting his head against the back of the chair. The faintest smile played on his mouth through the agonizing pain he was feeling. Because no matter how short their time was together, it was more than he could have ever hoped for. And in the time they shared, they experienced more of life’s greatest adventures than most people had in their entire lifetimes. He was angry with the world for taking away the boy he foresaw spending his life with, but he was also grateful for the time he had been given. Because one minute spent with Ian surpassed an eternity spent with anyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me. This was the most emotionally challenging thing I have ever written.
> 
> All that remains now is the epilogue.


	11. Free - Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This epilogue is 90% dialogue because I wanted Mickey to tell his own story.

The North side of Chicago looked much different than the ghetto of the South side Mickey grew up in. The yards were healthy and well-maintained, the sidewalks were evenly paved, and neighbors were waving to each other rather than screaming slurs and threatening lives. Mickey felt out of place but he kept his head low as he made his way to his destination, trying to blend in. His soft pink shirt would’ve drawn attention on the streets, but here, it seemed more normal than not.

During the year following Ian's death, Mickey contacted Fiona only one time to ask her where Ian had been buried. She tried to talk to him for longer than he was comfortable with, asking questions and offering her thanks for taking care of her younger brother in his final days, but it was too fresh for him. The aftermath of those few months were like a festering wound that he had been patching up. Hearing Fiona’s sobbing was like kicking him while he was down. He spent many nights wondering if he made the right choice; taking Ian from his family, not convincing him that he needed to seek medical attention. The constant battle with himself was hard enough without hearing the cries of Ian’s own flesh and blood.

The cemetery made him uncomfortable, seeing as how he had never actually been to one. When his mother overdosed, Terry had her taken away and never followed up for cremation or burial. They never held a service. The family barely took the time to grieve. So being surrounded by all of the headstones with inscriptions of the names of strangers sent a shiver down his spine. He had a new perspective on death, now. Knowing that all of the people around him once had families, partners, aspirations, and stories. They all meant the world to someone, just as Ian had to him.

He walked the path that lead towards the back of the lot, counting each headstone as he went until he reached row fourteen as Fiona instructed. Three plots into the row, he swallowed down the lump of nerves that bundled themselves into the pit of his throat.

_Ian Clayton Gallagher_  
_Son, Brother, Friend._  
_"Our Fingerprints Don't Fade From the Lives We Touch"_  
_May 11, 1996- July 26, 2013_

Mickey bit the inside of his cheek as his eyes scanned across the words. He didn’t recognize the quote as having any significant meaning to Ian personally, however it was certainly true. The redhead had left a permanent mark in his life. The headstone was simple. Not gaudy enough to represent the spirit of Ian or the life he wanted to live, but Mickey figured as much since his parents never knew who he really was. They never had the pleasure of acquainting themselves with the boisterous, infectious boy that they spent so much time pushing themselves away from. He approached slowly and ran his fingers over the rough edge at the top of the headstone. His heart rate increased as he squatted down to trace each letter of his name.

"Hey, Ian." He whispered while blinking back the tears that he promised himself he would attempt to control upon his first visit. He chose not to attend Ian's funeral to avoid the awkward interactions with his family who would be hounding him with questions and emotions that he wasn't prepared to handle. He made the decision to make his first appearance today because it was the anniversary of Ian's passing. One year ago, he lost his best friend, lover, and savior.

He extended his hand which was wrapped around the stems of a bouquet of bright sunflowers that he picked up from a small shop on the corner. "I uh, I brought you these. Dunno if you like flowers but it uh, it seemed like some gay shit you'd like." He rested the flowers on the dirt at his feet then sat down with his knees bent, arms wrapped around his legs. He sat silently staring at the grave. He prepared this conversation in his head a thousand and one times, but now that he was here, he couldn't form the words.

"I made it to Florida." He almost felt guilty as the words rolled out, wishing so badly that Ian could have reached their destination with him. "Wish you could see it. You'd love it, man." He closed his eyes tight, transporting himself to the place Ian wanted so desperately to see. "It's hot as balls but it's real fuckin' nice. Never learned to swim but, I just like walkin' on the beach sometimes. Sand between my toes and shit." If he inhaled deep enough, he could smell the salt of the ocean and the refreshing air surrounding it. "Gotta wear fuckin' SPF 5000. Bet your ass would burn like a mother fucker, too." He chuckled at the image of Ian turning as red as a lobster underneath the intensity of the sun.

"Live there now, actually." His stomach sank before he admitted his next statement, knowing how disappointed Ian would have been in him. However, he felt guiltier withholding the information than he did telling the truth. "I beat the shit outta some guy a week after I got there. Don't really know why. Pigs took me in. Got let outta the can after a month though for overcrowding." He bit his lip and nodded his head as if he could hear Ian screaming at him in disapproval. "I was so mad, man. I didn't know what else to do. Took it out on that fucker."

A week after arriving in Florida, Mickey found himself sitting at a bar, sipping Jack Daniel's alone when a blonde man near his age approached and made small talk. No one was allowed to imply that Mickey was gay except Ian because the redhead was the only person who awakened any feelings that made him feel as such. With thoughts of Ian weighing heavily on his mind, it only took a few shitty attempts at flirting before Mickey rose to his feet and got that satisfying crunch of his fist meeting the nose of the stranger. He had been so enraged by the loss of Ian that he didn't know what else to do. No one would ever be able to take Ian's place and the fact that the other boy thought he stood a chance stirred up a blinding rage that he had only been able to maintain in the company of the redhead. He took it too far, throwing blow after brutal blow. As soon as the familiar metal was clasped around his wrists and his Miranda Rights were rattled off, he regretted his decision. Ian's words were echoing in his head as he was thrown into the backseat of the cruiser that he was indeed better than the tainted Milkovich blood that ran through his veins. Without the constant reassurance, the idea that he wasn’t destined for a lifetime behind bars was often lost on him.

"Met a guy on the inside. Old dude, don't worry." He reassured, envisioning Ian's jealous scowl growing on his face with his arms crossed protectively over his own chest. "He asked me what I was plannin' on doin' when I got out. Told him I had fuck all. Said he could hook me up with some boys he knew workin' on some demolition shit." Mickey picked at the grass mindlessly. A small smile crept onto his face. "Turns out your idea wasn't so shitty. When I got out, I met one of the guys; Ronny. He got me a job tearin' down some old strip mall so they could build a nursin' home." Mickey could see Ian's proud smile shining on his face. "Ronny asked me to stick around for some more demo so I thought, y'know, might as well. Back hurts all the fuckin' time but the pay's pretty good. Anyway, I crashed with Ronny for a while before I could pay for the shitty one-bedroom I got now. It ain't much but I don't need a lot. Just me, y’know." His eyes fell down to the piece of grass he was tugging from the dirt. A flash of sadness washed over his formerly content expression. "Miss you sleepin' next to me. Still ain’t used to it."

Nights were either too cold or too hot since the unit in his apartment was a piece of shit and didn't work properly the majority of the time. His landlord was worthless and rarely took care of anything he complained about; which was a lot. He had Ronny and the other boys take a look at the place but they were more skilled at tearing things down than they were at fixing them. Many nights Mickey found himself bundled in blankets, limbs wrapped around the extra pillow he purchased. He told himself it was in case he wanted to prop up against it while watching television. _Provides more cushion,_ he would say. But deep down he knew it was so he had something to snuggle. It could never compare to a warm body, but it was the best he could do.

His memory returned to the atrocity of the first few days after he lost Ian. His voice was quiet as he reminisced about the decisions he made. "I almost came back here, man. I almost came back to the South side. Didn't know what the fuck I was gonna do without you." His tongue wetted his lips, eyes closed tighter to hold back his emotions. "Could hear your annoyin' ass tellin' me not to. Tellin' me to just keep goin'. So that's what I did. Made it there the next day. Slept on a fuckin' bench the first few nights. Didn't have enough cash to get a motel. Was kinda glad I got thrown in the clink so I had somewhere to sleep, y'know?" He opened his eyes and let a stray tear trickle down his cheek. "I was so fuckin' lost without you. Still am. When I ain't workin' it's the worst. When I'm stuck in that shithole apartment."

His stomach churned, body tingling with the need to release his pent up emotions. He spent the early weeks following Ian's death doing a lot of crying. Sobbing in his cell with his face buried in his pillow to muffle the sounds of his weakness. Screaming into the pitch black of his bedroom at the absence of his redhead. It wasn't a permanent fix but it usually made him feel better in the moment. He ceased all communication with his siblings once he met Ian, and he chose to not rekindle their relationship once he made a life for himself in Florida. He didn't want Terry to be able to trace him to his new home and he doubted his presence was even recognized as missing. It seemed like the right decision, but that only left his co-workers as "friends" and they didn't know him. They would never understand him. Not the way Ian did.

"Sometimes I think you're there in the apartment. I dunno if you are. But I swear I can fuckin' feel you." He titled his head back and checked his surroundings to be sure he was alone before letting the tears fall down his face. "I miss you so fuckin' much." His jaw locked, teeth clenched impossibly tight. "Sucks comin' home and not bein' able to talk to you about shit. Never thought I'd want that. But I do. Ronny and the boys are fine for grabbin' a beer or whatever but it ain't the same. Just want to come home to you, Ian. See that fuckin' dopey smile. Kiss you and shit. I miss it, man." He clenched his fingers into a fist, nails leaving indentations against his palms.

"Can't even think about bein' with anyone else. I was with you for two fuckin' months and you wrecked me. Like my dick's fuckin' broken or some shit. Don't even think about it anymore. Don't even try. What's the fuckin' point? Ain't nobody gonna be like you. Already had the best." He wiped his cheeks off with the heels of his hands, a gentle laugh breaking through the silence. "Got me fucked up even a year later. Don't know how you turned my ass so gay but fuck, you're under my skin, man. The fuck can I do?" He shook his head at himself then reached into his pocket for a cigarette and lit it with a trembling hand. He took a long draw before exhaling the smoke through his nostrils.

"Tried to quit." He studied the burning stick perched between his fingers. "Did alright for a couple days but." He shook the referenced stick at the phantom presence he felt sitting with him. "Didn't work out s’good in the long run." He took another deep inhale then fought the instinct to pass it over to waiting fingers. "Cut back a little though. Can't really afford 'em anyway." He stared intently as the grey smoke billowed from the end. “Joined a gym. One of the boys knows the owner or somethin’. Got me a discount. It ain’t so bad. Not runnin’ on any fuckin’ treadmills but I like liftin’.” He knew he was rambling but he wanted Ian to know every detail of how he was turning his life around for the better. To convince him that he was more than the scum that he initially met.

"I'm sorry," he broke his own silence, "that I couldn't help you more." He nudged his nostril with his knuckle and licked the corner of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. "You fuckin' saved me and I couldn't save you." He swallowed hard, berating himself for breaking down once again. He couldn’t dance around the main purpose of why he came today any longer. His heart was heavy with the words he never had the chance to tell Ian. "Kept me away from a lotta shit. Away from my dad, away from dealin', away from myself. Fuckin' saved me." It was worth repeating because it was the truth. Without Ian, Mickey knew exactly where he would be: On the streets, fighting people for chump change, running drugs for Terry, or rotting in prison. He had a setback when he lost Ian but that wasn't him anymore. He wanted to be better because Ian told him he could be.

"I love you, Ian. And I-I hope you know that. I know I'm shit at talkin' but I really fuckin' love you. You would've been happy in Florida, man. We could've gotten away from all of the shit in Chicago together. That's how it shoulda been." He took the final draw from his cigarette before pitching it into the grass a few feet away. He sat quietly, listening to the rustle of the leaves of the trees hanging overhead. There was so much he wanted to say but part of him still felt that Ian was always with him. That he already knew what Mickey's life was like now and Mickey was simply telling him the things he witnessed from the day his soul was set free.

He stood up from his place in the grass and rested a hand on the top of Ian's headstone. His eyes grazed over it one last time. "I hope you're happy wherever y'are now. Hope there's fruity oatmeal every day. And a big fuckin' bed for your tall ass. And a whole lotta cats." He smiled, memories playing in his mind like a film. "I love you, Gallagher." He squeezed the headstone with his fingers as if it was Ian's hand inside of his own. Tears lie idly at his lash line, waiting for permission to fall. He sniffed and removed his hand from the slab of concrete that marked the resting place for the love of his life. It wasn't easy to walk away but he knew he couldn't stay there forever.

He shoved his hands in his pockets as he approached the gate he entered from. His head was hung low but his eyes caught on movement in the bushes. The closer he came, the source of the rustling grew clearer. He pulled his bottom lip in with his teeth before a laugh was emitted from his mouth. "Fuckin' Gallagher." He squatted down to the orange Tabby cat slinking out from beneath the foliage. He held his hand out for the animal to sniff before it started rubbing its back along the length of Mickey's outstretched arm. He looked around for any signs of a potential owner, secretly hoping the cat was a stray.

He may not have been a strong believer in any kind of afterlife before Ian, but now it seemed foolish not to be. Either the cat was a sign from Ian that he was with him, or the world had a sick sense of humor. He petted the cat along its matted fur for a few minutes before reaching a relatively easy decision. He scooped the cat up and held it under one arm against his side. "Gonna call ya Jack." His tears dried against his cheeks as his eyes shifted back and forth between the underfed animal. He took one last look behind him at the graveyard, promising Ian that he would return the following year on this very date. He snuggled Jack closer to his side and let his feet take him back down the sidewalk to where that ugly stolen green car of his was parked further down the street. He popped the door open and deposited Jack in the passenger seat so the pair could start their journey back to Florida.

Mickey's life was nowhere near perfect. But it was better than he ever could have hoped for himself and he had Ian to thank for that. If their paths had never crossed, he would be someone he couldn't recognize now. He'd miss Ian until he took his final breath, but when that time came, he'd be ready because that meant they would be reunited beyond the stars. Until then, he was going to try his hardest to make Ian proud of him for the person he had become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words cannot even begin to express how thankful I am for every single person who read this story. I know it was painful to read but I wanted to convey that Mickey and Ian's love would survive any situation. So from the bottom of my heart, thank you so much for every kudo, every comment, and every read.


End file.
